Forge
by JackOwens1860
Summary: Jason Todd returns to Gotham despite Scarlet telling him not to. He proceeds to disrupt Bruce's operations. When he is seriously injured, Bruce had little choice but to save his life. Multiple POV Rated M for later bad language from the usual suspect.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: There will be more of this. Prior to New 52 reboot. Set after events of Batman and Robin issue 25 in which The Red Hood escapes Gotham with Scarlet. Jason returns to Gotham, disrupting Bruce's operations. There will be angst in later instalments, if there isn't enough already present in this offering. Enjoy**

**Forge**

**Jason**

I'll never go back to Gotham. Never. I told Scarlet that. I promised her I would never set foot in that city ever again. Because I am _bigger_ than Gotham now. Because I'm bigger than Batman. Because I'm the Red Hood and anyone who's worth knowing on this whole planet knows who I am and, more importantly, what I'm about. I could be an international terrorist/ vigilante on any continent. I keep telling myself that, keep reminding myself it is a fact, not a fantasy. But something inside of me refuses to accept it, keeps telling me to go back to the city, insists I go finish things up with _him_. It's not any part of me I want to keep; it's that stupid kid I used to be, _his_ second-rate Robin. It still demands his death, his suffering and torment. But I don't need that anymore to be happy. That kid died with the crowbar and the warehouse. It took a lot of time and a hell of a lot more beat downs for me to realise that, but it finally sunk in: Jason Todd is not about revenge, but justice. That's why I can forget about Gotham and its guardian, Mr Perfect, and focus on the scumbags who need putting down. So why the fuck am I on all-fours in an alleyway getting my ass kicked by Meta-humans? Because I just had to go back one more time. I just had to try and shake Gotham up one more freaking time. It was supposed to be funny. As I cough up way more claret than is acceptable, I catch on and accept this is not funny; this is going to be fatal in about thirty seconds.

As they smash blow after kick into my tenderised flesh, I feel trying to boss around the new batch of super-criminals in this hell-hole was more than a little immature of me. I didn't have a surplus of ammunition or gadgets at my disposal, just the basics. The Kevlar-weave survival suit I'm sporting is not blunting the hits enough to save me; the same deal applies to my helmet. And while this indifferent end is playing out, what am I thinking in my final moments? _On your feet soldier, it's not over yet._ Yeah, I got that ridiculous hypocrite's encouragement swirling round my head like a mantra. Every time I was down, every time I was out, those words were all I needed to get back up again. They made me fight to the bitter end. They forced me up in the warehouse, in training and everything between. I think I even heard them in my grave. _On your feet soldier, it's not over yet._ Except this time Bruce, it is over. Turns out you were right about me all along. I am a lost cause. I am.

What happens next is not pleasant, especially for me. Exactly one minute after I assumed I would be lying dead in a rat-infested sewer, I have been unceremoniously rescued with absolutely zero fanfare…by The Batman. Oh God, how embarrassing can my night get? A twenty-three-year-old super-criminal/ costumed vigilante needs his arch-enemy, a forty-year-old asshole dressed as a giant bat, to save his ass. It has to be the real Bat, not Dick; only Bruce can disable eight Meta-humans using only his fists. Dick needs at least a small arsenal and his girlfriend to deal with that kind of crisis. As he approaches me, I turn my head away. I really don't want to see the condescension on his face right now, or the ever-present disappointment at my general presence. Thankfully, he is not in a preaching mood.

"Can you stand?" The dark, empty tone inquires. Got to give him credit; he's as cold inside as ever when it comes to his wayward 'son'.

"No."

"Hhnn. I see." Before I can voice an objection of any sort, he's picked me up and got me across his shoulders in a fireman's carry. My two-hundred-and-twenty-pound weight does not even get a quiet groan out of his body; he handles me like I'm a seven-year-old and just as helpless.

"I don't want your—"

"Be quiet." And just like that, I shut my mouth. He walks with me at first. Then he begins to run. The scenery goes by at an alarming speed and minutes later we're at the car. I hate how amazing he is, still. Guy's not even out of breath. He lowers me into the passenger seat with the same ease as lifting me up, and then gets in himself.

"Don't you touch me." I warn him despite being on the verge of blacking-out. He doesn't even bother looking at me when he replies.

"You will lose consciousness in less than fifteen seconds. Save your 'boundary issues' for then."

Did he just make a joke? Jeez, travelling through time messed him up more than I thought. That's the last thing I remember before the world fades to black.

I wake up, waiting to feel the restraints or the smell of a totally sealed environment. There are no restraints and the only smell in the air is must and a hint of lavender. I open my eyes slowly, but find the lights in the room are off so I don't need to be gentle. I go to raise my head only to find it's already slightly elevated against the pillow. When I smell again, the thick aroma of antiseptic and fresh gauze clogs my nostrils; Al has been treating me. I spot Bruce's looming shadow against the surrounding darkness; he is totally motionless, but absolutely watching me without any distraction. The night vision is still adjusting, but I know he's in civilian clothes and has no doubt had a shower so he hasn't been here all the time.

"Alfred has informed me your injuries are minor in relation to what injuries you _might_ have sustained. He estimates a recovery period of between ten days and three weeks, dependent on your progress in the next forty-eight hours. If you would rather recuperate elsewhere, you must make your own travel arrangements. My advice is to sleep for now and explain yourself tomorrow." He rounds off this very practiced and professional speech by walking straight past me and out the room. I think about calling after him, but nothing clever comes to mind. I listen to him descend the staircase and then cross the parlour before his footsteps get muffled by carpet. He's heading for the cave; I wonder what time it is and how little my presence back in this house affects him or his routine.

Scarlet is probably freaking out right now; I told her I'd be a couple of hours. Trying to get up gives me seriously sharp, grinding pains in my ribcage and a total lack of cooperation from my lifeless arms. It has to be at least three broken ribs and a sizeable loss of blood from my arms. I bet my face isn't too hot either right now. Never mind, Jay-Jay; you can always escape tomorrow.

**Bruce**

I am alone. Dick required a vacation from duties as Batman. Damian required a break from this endless cycle of death and combat we call a life. Tim wanted to help me ease the burden. I made the decision to send them all to Disneyland Florida for two weeks. The location and attractions are for Damian's benefit; the boy is still only ten and needs to learn what that entails. The distance from Gotham and her problems is for Dick's benefit; he needs to relax desperately. I do not want him turning into what I made myself become in the pursuit of my approval. Tim likes Disneyland. He has always been ready to sacrifice anything he wants for the mission…they all have. It is unfair of me to expect them to part with any future happiness for the sake of a crusade I intended to fight alone. I hope they have fun in one another's company. I… love my boys…so very much. At present I am patrolling the cityscape.

I have missed Gotham these past few months. During my time globe-trotting for Batman Incorporated, I naturally had several opportunities to exercise my skills as The Batman in different countries on different continents. They are not the same. Other cities are alien to me, the crimes foreign in nature. No here demands my attentions more than Gotham. This city, a place referred to as Hell-on-Earth even by the criminals that populate it, is the only challenge I could never quite surmount. Other cities and their problems seem insignificant compared to the phoenix-like properties of Gotham's criminal element. They continually reinvent themselves to try and usurp my iron grip; the one Dick is constantly under siege to protect. My stranglehold on this city's degenerates may loosen and waver from time to time, but it never goes away completely. No matter who may believe they are in charge, I am forever in control whether I tell them or not. This is my city. She will not sink into her own filth when I am here. I will not allow it.

It is almost two a.m. I am stood in the immediate vicinity of Park Row, conducting normal surveillance of a new group trying to take over Gotham's underworld contingent. The Consortium is composed of eight members, all of whom possess Meta-human abilities ranging from Bane-like super-strength to Flash-like speed and running a sizeable gamut in-between. Due to their decision to always wear costumes and a lack of D.N.A traces to analyse, I have yet to ascertain their civilian identities, if indeed they ever had them. This group are smart and highly organized; in the past six weeks they have managed to overwhelm several districts of South Gotham and assume control. Their takeover of The Narrows was a particularly impressive feat considering the level of scum they had to contend with. They now have controlling interests in narcotics, prostitution, racketeering and human trafficking with plans for further expansion.

It is a pertinent point to inquire why I have yet to act given their high-public profile and derisive attitude towards me. While I am certain Dick would no doubt have already instigated a fight with this group to show Gotham that The Batman was not afraid of conflict, he would have lost. When dealing with individuals above those common criminals, reconnaissance and a sound plan-of-action are paramount in finding success. I have already learned this group is unsure of my true capabilities, evidenced in their unwillingness to fight me. They always create a distraction to avert my attention while they commit crimes. Their boastfulness is not the sign of an overinflated ego, but fear; they are hiding something. Although still in early stages of development, I have already tailored a strategy to defeat all of them in a single encounter, utilizing nothing but my fists. Testing this strategy is still a week or so further down the line; I have not discovered the limits of their recuperative powers yet and could find myself fatiguing at the worst possible time. I must be completely prepared for any eventuality. I must be patient.

Fortunately, they are still taking Gotham in small, manageable stages, not full-blown areas in single strikes; I have sufficient time to refine my tactics. This evening's surveillance has revealed enough to suggest my endurance and physical stamina is more than required to outlast them in a fight. Now I can go and—

KA-BOOM

The cape takes the brunt of most of the shrapnel. The characteristics of the explosion are familiar to me; I have dealt with them before. When I bring my cape back down and survey the building I was just observing, I find it has been reduced to half its former size and is burning with an intense orange flame. I see the perpetrator first, confirming my suspicions on the explosives; The Red Hood. At present, it is unclear whether or not Jason Todd is underneath the mask. I wait from my vantage point as The Consortium emerges from the rubble and debris unscathed. Their expressions, even from this distance, are readable; they are enraged. The Red Hood says something, provoking the group to launch a full-frontal assault. When he performs a deft acrobatic manoeuvre, producing twin pistols and firing at his targets whilst simultaneously flying through the air, I know it is Jason. I do not need this right now.

The boy's strategy is proving ineffective against them. Although he lasts several minutes, landing significant blows on all eight hostiles, he quickly exhausts his supplies. Eventually, a mere eight minutes after the battle commenced, Jason is formally overpowered by two of the stronger individuals of the group and subjected to a horrific and prolonged beating. At this point, I should intervene. I wait. I wait until the boy is thrown into a quieter alleyway and prepared for a fatal strike. Then I offer my services. My original plan for engaging The Consortium involved an open space; the narrowness of the alleyway and the size of their members mean I have the upper-hand. I drop down under the cover of smoke and red phosphorous, blinding the one member I know has what is essentially internal night vision. It is then simply a case of momentum.

Bringing my entire weight down on their strongest will make scant impact; dropping from a height of ten metres with a speed of over forty-miles-an-hour and thus increasing my weight several times, will have an effect. In this case, it incapacitates two of them, the strongest two. Without their muscle to support them, the remaining six are close to child's play. Speed is dealt with my electrifying the floor; my rubber insulation protecting me from the shock, Night Vision is out from a series of pin-point strikes to crucial parts of the anatomy, Mind Control with a blind hit to the back of the skull, Animal by a severe heel kick to the lower jaw, resulting in a fracture, Metallic Skin by exploitation of the eyes and then own momentum and The Leader by a combination of fear and elbows. All this is achieved within fifty-seven seconds, almost two minutes faster than initially estimated. I am impressed. By utilizing the same basic principles of my original plan I have succeeded ahead of schedule in diffusing their influence in this city. However, I would not have needed to rush my preparations if not for Jason's presence.

As I turn my attentions to the boy, I cannot help but wonder how stubborn he really is. Dick told me he had escaped their custody, with his accomplice, never to return to Gotham. Part of me was glad I would no longer be required to deal with his persistent presence in my affairs. However, now, without adequate medical attention, Jason could die here. There is a small aspect in me that says I should allow such a petty end befall him, that he would be better off dead…as would I. However, I know such an avenue of thought is NOT a viable option; I will not let him die again. When I approach, the boy turns away from me. Good, I do not want further difficulty from him.

"Can you stand?" I ask, knowing already such an action is impossible for him to achieve.

"No."

"Hhnn. I see."

After a brief appraisal of his current condition, I deem it safe to move him. As I position him across my shoulders, I fight the urge to drop him. Jason is heavier than I recall, in spite of his suit's weight, roughly around the two-hundred-and-twenty-five pound mark. The load is easy enough to manage. He tries to offer a protest, but I cut him off; I do not need any more difficulties from him at present. It is only an eight-hundred-metre run to the car, a journey I make in less than four minutes. I place him in the passenger seat, mindful of his ribs, an area clearly traumatised with repeated blows due to its unnatural softness. I take a short while to compose myself before entering the car and starting the engine.

He tells me not to touch him. I have no interest in doing so anyway. I inform him he will lose consciousness in less than fifteen seconds and then wait until I am proven correct. When he passes out, I have space to think uninhibited. What is the best course of action to take at this particular juncture? Perhaps it would be prudent to ensure he is incarcerated once more, in a place that is escape-proof…although no such structure exists; he could escape from anywhere…like me. There is always the notion of intense, prolonged rehabilitation…but no psychiatrist would be suitable to tackle his issues. Their safety would also be in jeopardy. I could ask him to…no, a foolish idea; the boy will not listen to me or reason. I spend the remainder of the journey to the cave, creating and dismissing another twelve possible solutions to a problem that is as close to unsolvable as any I have encountered. I am tired of him thwarting my attempts at aid, at rescue from the abyss. He requires a club not an olive branch. When parking the car, I conclude to let him decide his own future. As for his immediate future, I leave that to Alfred.

"Are you sure this is what you want, Sir?" The old man asks me as he begins cutting away Jason's costume to examine the wounds. I shake my head.

"I do not want this, Alfred. But we are obligated to save his life. He can decide his own fate when suitably recovered."

"And what if that fate is incompatible with your mission, Sir?"

"We can quibble semantics later, old friend. For now, do as I ask and treat his injuries." I do not stay any longer, discarding my suit and ancillaries in the armoury and retiring upstairs for a shower. Upon my return to the cave some two hours later, Alfred has completed his treatment. He regards me wistfully.

"Master Jason's injuries are minor in comparison to what might have happened had you not intervened. Based on the fact he clearly possesses the same physical conditioning and fitness standards as both Dick and Tim, I would estimate his wounds will heal within three weeks. I am afraid I cannot carry him to the house; his muscle mass and size makes it impossible." I nod in understanding and appreciation. I draw close to the boy's prone form and scrutinize him briefly. His face holds the same expression it did when I buried him all those years earlier, pained and deeply-troubled. I glance at the memorial case directly behind me, some fifty metres away. The old man can see this.

"What do you wish, Sir?" Alfred inquires, reading my face like others would a book; he knows me too well. I turn back to Jason.

"That he had stayed dead and buried. I've lost count of the number of people he's killed, Alfred; dozens, if not more than one hundred. And how other lives has he affected because of his savage quest for vengeance? He almost killed Damian and Tim during my absence. I trust you remember those incidents well?"

"With unfortunate clarity, yes. Do you feel responsible for his actions?"

"I got him killed. I got him mad. I made him crazy with jealousy and anger. I am wholly responsible for his actions."

"With all due respect, Master Bruce, you did not make him murder people; he arrived at that situation on his own."

"He was my child, Alfred, my son. He went astray and I did not do enough to stop him."

"Do not torture yourself, Sir."

"I'm not, Alfred. I find I no longer care. I only want him gone as soon as possible."


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Buckle up people, this story is going places. Not sure exactly what places these are, but am having tremendous fun writing this and seeing where I am taken. Enjoy.**

**Forge 2**

**Jason**

Waking up confirms to me I did not just have the most tripped-out dream in my life. I did get my ass handed to me by meta-human scumbags. Bruce did single-handedly defeat them and save me. He did take me back to the house and get Al to glue me back together. I am in a bed I haven't seen in almost seven years…Jesus Christ…I'm home. As much as I want to kid myself of all the facts, this is the closest thing I've had to a home in my life. Even my parents' apartment didn't feel like a home to this extent. It's crazy, I know; this is a mausoleum to the wealthiest family in Gotham, a creepy monument to their memory inhabited by what's left of their prodigal son, but this is my home. Deep down, maybe I knew that all along. I definitely felt it when I returned to the cave for the first time since I wore the costume, back when everybody was stupid enough to believe Bruce could be killed by a god. Of course, at that time, I shook the feeling off. Without Bruce, this isn't anything but a tomb. Even golden boy knew that; that's why he left. Psycho ninja brat never liked the place anyway so it was easy for him to walk away too. And Timmy boy? Without Bruce, his whole world would cave-in. He was damn lucky he was right about the big guy being alive; people don't come back from the dead very often.

I wait a while in silence until the door opens. Who should stroll in but the real patriarch of this family…Al the Great, true king of the Bat Family and all that entails. He's holding that familiar tray, the one covered in pills and tumblers of water. As Robin I must've seen this sight over a hundred times, especially from my current angle. It never gets old.

"Morning, Al." I say to break the tension when he sets the tray down on my bedside table. When he looks at me contemptuously, I think I won't get any conversation out of the old guy. But this is Al, the professional of the outfit. He inclines his head and speaks in his most hospitable voice.

"Good morning, Master Jason. How are you faring?"

"Pleased as punch now I've seen your face round here. Still rocking the 'Master' handle, eh? Appreciate it." I reach out for the pill cluster, feeling a hell of a burn in my side. He hands them over without another word, followed by the water. I may be wrong, but I think Al is the only person in this family I haven't tried to kill on at least one occasion. No, never touched Al, not once. He was always on my side, always the good guy. I missed him. "How many rounds can I expect today?"

"Three rounds of further medication. They will arrive at the usual intervals. Do you require breakfast, Sir?" I shrug wishing I hadn't; ribs are on fire now.

"Are you really offering or just being polite?" I ask him seriously. He frowns at me.

"Your past actions have been irreprehensible, your conduct entirely unbecoming. Regardless of these facts you are still part of this family and my patient. If you want food or drink, I will not deprive you of it based on what has come before." I'm kinda stunned right now. This old man is not a fool, nor does he suffer them, but he just said he considers me a part of this family, still. Even after everything I've done to the people he loves, he's still on my side. I think I must have been staring for a while because he repeats his question again.

"Breakfast smoothie, Al?"

"Of the blueberry variety, Sir?" I smile at him.

"You remembered."

"I never forget a common favourite. I shall return shortly." He bows in a display of humble decency I can never replicate and prepares to leave. I call after him.

"Hey Al." He turns to face me.

"Yes, Master Jason?"

"Thanks for saving my life." He says nothing, merely nods his head in appreciation of my thanks and leaves. What a guy. What a pro.

I'm flicking through one of my old Playboy's that I found still hidden under the mattress sheet when I hear footsteps approaching. I can't believe this stuff used to get me off…there's no action going on downstairs. "Hey Al, when's the big man going to start bitching at me to reform? Has he scheduled an appointment yet?" I call out.

"Aren't you a little old for that sort of material?" The familiar dark, empty voice responds as Bruce's heavy footsteps cross the wood floor. I glance up to see him dressed for casual Fridays with his sweater and slacks combo.

"Isn't it a weekday? You should be at work." I say closing the magazine and placing it neatly beside me.

"I took the day off."

"Really? Just for me? You shouldn't have." He is not in the mood for sarcasm. His next statement just rams that home for me.

"What are you doing back in Gotham?"

"That's it? What is it with you and not making small talk? Try starting an interrogation with a 'hello' or a 'how are you' to really get things rolling."

"Answer the question." I think he's only a few bad jokes away from smothering me with a pillow. I give him what he wants.

"I wanted to shake things up, just for the hell of it. Old habits die hard, right?" He is really not playing. He's just staring at me with the coldest eyes imaginable on a live human being. When he speaks, it sounds like he's channelling the grim reaper himself.

"And when can I expect you gone from here?"

"Well, I want my smoothie first. After that, I'll think about it." He does not seem satisfied with any of my answers least of all that gem. He turns away and looks out the window for a moment. The silence doesn't last very long; I break it.

"So where's the brat or golden boy? Figured one of them would've come to throw evils at me by now."

"Disneyland."

"Come on. I just want to know where they are; what the hell can I do with that?"

"I sent Dick, Damian and Tim to Disneyland for two weeks yesterday evening. They deserve a vacation."

"Snow White better pray Dami didn't pick his katana collection." I offer as he turns back to face me. He approaches the foot of my bed and stops.

"You changed your hair." He says like it's not the most obvious change in my appearance. To better out fox my enemies, I dyed my hair back to black and cut it back down again; from a distance, I could pass for Dick. Of course, Dick would have to seriously hit the gym to stand any chance of passing for me these days; I'm freaking huge.

"Like it? Thought I'd go for a Wayne family favourite. It's almost exactly the same as yours, right?"

"Jason, I'm tired of this conflict of ours. I thought when Dick let you slip away you might finally leave this place and find new purpose in life."

"Hey, I couldn't give a flying fuck about getting back at you or this family anymore; that part of my life is over, finito. And I was starting something new with Scarlet." I tell him firmly, wincing when the pain in my stomach hits again.

"So what happened?" The big man says, rounding the bed and sitting down on the edge of it. He sounds genuinely interested in my reply for the first time since he walked in. I shake my head, slightly unsure of why I'm laid up here now instead of fighting criminals with her somewhere far away.

"The kid inside me won't let go. Truth is, I miss Gotham. Sure, it's probably the most violent, inhuman hell-hole in North America, but it was my home for the first sixteen years of my life. Even when I'm miles away from here, I still feel the heartbeat of these streets; still smell the murder and corruption in the air. It relaxes me. It relaxes me in combat, at home, when I want to fall asleep, everything. I miss this place." I pause to look at Bruce properly instead just in his general direction, "I guess that's why you keep coming back too, huh? You miss the city." I hope he can tell I was being brutally honest just now. When he nods, I know he can.

"Is your neck still sore?" The big man's referring to the batarang he lodged in my throat when saving The Joker from buying the farm back in Crime Alley. I still have a wicked scar to mark the spot.

"I do okay. Still trying to keep score with you though. How many 'memories' you got now_?" Each scar is a memory_, Bruce used to tell me back in the day, _every wound leaves its mark_.

"I no longer keep count." He replies without humour of any kind. "They are starting to layer."

"So, am I going back to the big house or are you just going to cut me loose?" I say to change the subject to one I'm sure is his preference.

"Correctional facilities serve no purpose for you anymore. If you were capable of rehabilitation, there would have been signs by this stage. To that end, the best policy is to let you go under the condition you never return to the city limits." Nah, I don't think so, big guy. Did you just delete the speech about needing this city's filth to sleep at night? I can't give this place up; this isn't smoking you know.

"How about I stay and you try to help me." He stares at me like I've grown a second head. Pretty sure he hates the idea.

"I already employed the finest doctors and psychiatric staff available to assist…"

"Not professionals, just you. And maybe Al if he's up for it. I'll be good I promise." Okay, I could've sold that last line a little better without sniggering. The big man remains unconvinced of my repentance; I'm really not surprised.

"That is not even a realistic possibility, much less a viable solution. You are no longer welcome in this family." Whoa, whoa; what's with the harshness? Lucky Al said otherwise or I'd be a little less lively right now. Let's boogie, rich boy. Try this comeback…

"Because I killed criminals? You've worked with dozens of vigilante killers like me before. What about Azrael or Tarantula?"

"I did not expect better from them. I did expect better from you." He fires back sternly. Not bad, but I got something better.

"And I'm sorry I failed your good boy tests. But let's be honest, nobody understands me better than you, nobody alive anyway." Like the sarcasm and sincerity cocktail there, Bruce? What you got for that curveball?

"Jason, it's over." That's weak, must try harder. I got him by the throat now.

"Bullshit. You say I've got no hope left? I'm twenty-three for Christ's sake, an age I really wasn't expected to reach anyway, what with being beaten to death in Ethiopia seven years ago. There's always hope for a miracle, Bruce. Just give me one more chance. If I fuck up, throw me to the wolves." He still feels guilty about my death, I can tell just from looking at his eyes. They widened dramatically when I reminded him of Ethiopia. He probably remembers picking up my corpse from the rubble and…Jesus. He probably checked my pulse and found nothing. I wonder how dead he felt at that moment. Probably not as dead as me but still, must've been bad. And what about my…my funeral? Did he have an open casket for that? Bet he thought he'd seen the last of me when he closed that lid the final time…

"It's your birthday soon, isn't it? Two weeks or so?" He says to break my train of thought. He knows it is; the man has a photographic memory. He's trying to make small talk.

"You used to leave presents on my grave, right?" He clenches his jaw. That's a touchy subject. His biting tone in answering it says it all really.

"What does it matter now?"

"Tell me about the funeral. What did you do for the funeral? Was it nice?"

"It's irrelevant. You are no longer dead. Talking about your funeral serves no purpose."

"Did you cry?"

**Bruce**

Did I cry for him? In my own way, yes. Although I shed no physical tears for his passing, the grief I felt was of such a profound and deep nature, I might as well have wept. I have never felt like such a failure as when I sat in the chapel with his lifeless body cradled in my arms. I remember the way he smelled that afternoon, a thick odour of death only slightly blunted by the presence of Alfred's soap on his grey skin. I remember how I could not bring myself to have him interred in the ground beside his mother, how I had to postpone the service four times due to my own inability to let him go. I let him down. Even now, looking right at him, I still feel the grief…

It is as strong as ever.

"No. I did not cry. Dick did I believe. Alfred did as well." The boy furrows his brow in response to hearing Dick cried for him.

"Do you ever cry?" He asks of me. Yes, I am capable of crying, as is any human being. Do I force myself to control such outbursts of emotion? Yes, such public displays are detrimental to my image and my work. Performing such an act does not 'humanize' me as Tim and Dick often suggest, it only highlights I have a weakness to exploit. Therefore I hide it. I retain tight control by meditation and breathing techniques. They give me the strength to resist. Perhaps it is a cold and sterile view of what is a natural part of the human condition, but it serves my purpose.

"I try not to." Jason has shed many tears in the time I have known him. He too has a stranglehold on his emotions, but lets it slip too often to call it a proper asset. He was crying when trying to force me to choose between the Joker and himself. I remember that clearly. My resolve had literally driven him to his limit and my final decision not to kill was met with outrage from the boy. I…have caused him so much pain, in many ways I am as accountable for his actions as he is. His permanent death would have saved many lives, but it would not bring peace. At least, in the current situation, I can explain myself to him, explain my actions. Whether he will listen is debatable, but it is worth the attempt. It is always worth the attempt.

"Did you ever really love me?" I do not even hesitate to answer that query; the answer is obvious.

"I could not help but love you. You were so troubled, but had such a good heart despite your tragic life. In many ways, you were very much like me when I was orphaned, just far more unfortunate in your circumstances." Jason seems somewhat disturbed by this reply, as if he did not quite expect such a grandiose statement from a man of my character. He should know that if I had never loved him, I would not have kept him, regardless of what he knew of me. Looking at him now, littered with fresh scars atop of old wounds; I cannot help but recall how unsettlingly he was already marked as a boy of barely thirteen.

Jason's fourteen-month stint living rough on Gotham's streets had left him with knife wounds, cigarette burns, a collection of miscellaneous scars and scrapes and a smoking habit. His age and appearance made him a soft target for many people to take advantage of. When he met me, he had already sold his body to seven men in exchange for a warm bed, money or just food. He was willing to do anything to survive on his own, anything to avoid foster care. His lack of ethics shocked me. His instincts and willingness to sacrifice his dignity to live another day were not only impressive, but also necessary for his training as Robin. He succeeded because he was a true fighter in life, not willing to just lie down and die. The boy was truly special.

"You know I trained for years just to kill you." Jason tells me with a smile, "It never occurred to me the feat was impossible, not once. When I came back to Gotham as The Red Hood, I honestly thought I'd destroy you so easily. That first fight, you know, when I took away your toys? I figured the next time would be the last time I'd be in your shadow. I thought I had you pegged. I was thinking Father Time had finally slowed you down, taken your strength and your speed low enough for me to take you out. But all that time, you were just holding back, gauging my abilities, my weaknesses. That's the one thing I forgot to get schooled in, spontaneous planning, the ability to just understand what was needed to win and how to achieve it while fighting for your life."

"What is your point, Jason?"

"That you are the most amazing, brilliant man I have ever met, still. Forty years old, right? You look thirty and have the fitness of a man half your age. With all the shit you've been through how is that even remotely possible? I mean, how old do I look?"

Jason looks exactly as I remember him in his tenure as Robin. He is like all my boys, gifted with good genetics and is in possession of a very handsome face that never fails to attract attention when desired. Even the past few years of harsh fighting and gruesome injuries have not marred his aesthetics; he is still handsome. Should I tell him this? How has the conversation arrived at this particular juncture in the first place? Where is he leading with this avenue of thought? Should I be wary? There are so many unanswered questions I am uncomfortable leaving blank.

"You look your age, perhaps slightly older." I say to appease him. His smile develops into a grin.

"How about that chance, Boss? One last roll of the dice on your wayward son." I consider what he is asking of me again.

"What about Scarlet?"

"I was thinking she could come live here. She's a pretty good team player all things told. You could at least give her a trial run. She deserves that at least." His accomplice is quite talented, going off the intelligence reports Alfred composed on her. She possesses many attributes that translate well to this particular arena. She is not a willing killer, nor even a willing participant in murder. She has killed of course, but not without provocation or necessity. Could she function in this unit? With Batman Incorporated being to take effect, I still need proven assets for the mission in this country. I am open to a trial. Should she prove her candidacy, I would be open to the idea of her beginning a probation period under Tim or Barbara's watch. Jason however is an anomaly.

He is a killer and little better than a terrorist, even in matters of vigilantism. But sitting and talking with him in this environment, an environment free of violence and high stakes has strangely renewed my hopes for his future. His life is with us; he has no place in any other area of society, even as a criminal. He is not unreasonable, just lost. My earlier assessment of him is proving correct, but too harsh in its approach. I am tired of fighting against him, that much is true, but I am willing to work _with_ him, if he too is willing to try. This is a risk I believe before my absence in time and space I would not have taken, for fear of failure. I have decided, incredulously, I will grant this lost boy one final chance at redemption in whatever form we can manage.

"Tell Scarlet to come here. I will trial her with your input. Consider this your last chance at this life. Should you decide to abandon your plans for redemption, the consequences will be grave. Do you understand, Jason?" The boy looks elated at my ruling. This is further evidenced by his response.

"I could fucking kiss you, Bruce."

"Please resist the urge. Do you have any further questions?"

"Yeah; where's my smoothie?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Forge 3**

**Author's Note: Slightly rushed, but it feels coherent enough to be published on this site. Bruce and Jason have a talk. Enjoy.**

**Bruce **

The magician and world-famous escape artist Harry Houdini first unveiled the Chinese Water Torture Cell to the public in 1912. The illusion itself consisted of three parts: first, the magician's feet are secured in stocks; next, he is suspended in mid-air from his ankles with a restraint brace; finally, he is lowered into a glass tank overflowing with water and the restraint is locked to the top of the cell. Houdini performed this predicament escape hundreds of times during his stage career and it remains one of his most iconic death-defying feats, routinely praised for its innovation and originality. The original cell now resides in a private collection, but an exact scale replica resides in the cave.

I perform my own variation on the routine, utilizing a straightjacket and a sound-proofed tank in order to better focus my mind during the escape. During my time in Paris' theatres as a stage performer, it was this apparatus that formed both the nucleus of my act and the root from which I became a master escapologist in my later career as Batman. I still practice the escape to this day, usually on the anniversary of Houdini's first performance in Berlin on September 21st; the man is someone I greatly admire and respect and therefore I consider this observance a tribute. At present, I am suspended upside-down, confined by a straightjacket and submerged in water; it can only be September 21st.

The most dangerous aspect of this escape is not the straightjacket, the water or even the shackles securing my ankles; it is the mentality. You must remain calm if you are to successfully defeat this test. As I begin to remove the straightjacket, I am perfectly relaxed and focused on the task at hand. Because I am capable of holding my breath for over three minutes even when under intense physical duress, I always free myself in time. My superior lung capacity does not make the escape unfair or biased, merely elementary. Once the jacket has been dispensed with and I have put my dislocated left shoulder back in place (the force of my motion was somewhat rougher than anticipated), I use the thin strand of metal embedded in my forearm to pick the locks on my shackles. Once free-floating in the tank, I turn myself the right way up and use nothing but brute force to break the sealed lid of the cell and surface for air. My heart-rate did rise past one-hundred-and-twenty. I believe it is an improvement on previous occasions.

CLAP CLAP CLAP

I turn my head to the left and see Jason stood on the level below mine, applauding my effort. Evidently he is feeling better.

"This tribute act of yours never gets old, Bruce. I was watching the whole time; what was that, like thirty seconds?"

"Forty-seven, Master Jason. Not his best time ever, I'm afraid." Alfred informs the boy from near the control panel for the cell's apparatus, including lowering the restraint brace into the water. While the old man is speaking, I take the opportunity to remove myself from the tank. I purposely lowered the water temperature in the tank to significantly increase the risks of hypothermia setting in; subsequently, after placing my feet back on the ground, I quickly pull on a thick robe to encourage the return of body heat and stop myself going into shock. The measure proves effective. I regain my composure a few moments later.

"How are you feeling?" I inquire. Jason shrugs his shoulders whilst scaling the stairway to meet my floor.

"Al's the best, right? Five days and I almost don't feel in pain anymore." We draw level with one another. Jason shakes his head at me and smiles. "Forty years old and you spend your weekends doing this stuff. Unbelievable." The boy seems overly fascinated with my age. Of course, past the age of forty the human body begins to lose the strength and resilience of its youth in small increments; in another five years I may not possess the physical strength to bench more than eight-hundred-pounds or be able to run at a consistent five-minute-mile pace over long distances, but the difference would be negligible. At my current rate of decline, I estimate I would no longer be able to perform my duties as Batman after the age of seventy-five…at least not on a consistent basis.

"How is Scarlet adjusting to life here?" I inquire. Jason's partner Scarlet has been staying at the house for the past four days. In that timeframe she has agreed to my conditions for her continued involvement in this world and undergone a series of grueling tests. The boy has trained her very well. Her reflexes, physical stamina, fighting capabilities and general mentality are comparable to Tim or Damian's current level of development, a feat all the more astounding given her background. She, of course, is lacking in many aspects needed to operate at this level, but is applying herself to mastering them with admirable focus. I am hopeful she will prove herself a worthy asset.

"She's fine, happy to be so certain about the immediate future. I guess she really likes having a purpose in life." Jason shares a bond with Scarlet he has never had with any other person in his life, with perhaps the exception of his adoptive mother. I am pleased to see he still has compassion and empathy for a human being other than himself. I mention nothing of their closeness, nor pry into how intimate their relationship is; it is none of my concern. I am content he is not alone or feels so.

"What are your plans for today?" I ask adjusting my robe slightly. Jason offers me a grave expression.

"I want to talk today."

"And are you ready to talk?"

"I think five days of breathing space is enough; I said I wanted you to help me…so let's talk."

Jason has been back in my company for five days. In that time he has not tried to usurp my authority or mount an escape of any kind. He has been both compliant and hospitable in his manner and actions. He has been given freedom of the house, the grounds and access to the cave. He began walking around yesterday. I found him in the cave upon my return from evening patrol. He was stood in front of the memorial case, staring at his own epitaph. I watched him stand motionless from the vehicle park for almost ten minutes. When he finally moved, it was to turn around and regard me. I was still in full costume, cowl covering my face and opaque white eyelets hiding my gaze. His face held such an expression of sorrow and regret at that moment. We stood staring at one another in mute silence for minutes. Then he left. The whole incident has left me feeling strange.

"Go to my father's study. I shall join you there shortly." I inform the boy. He nods and begins the journey back to the house. I watch him depart and experience a sensation of nostalgia. I recall him as an angry youth storming off from this place dozens of times during his tenure as Robin. I recall harsh words exchanged many times and violent outbursts from both sides. We were both angrier then I suppose. Now, he leaves without any fanfare or threats; he is calm and controlled…as am I. It is a welcome change in our dynamic.

"What are you feeling, Sir?" Alfred says coming to my side and handing me a fresh towel.

"The lost son has returned home, Alfred. After all the violence and tragedy, he's finally come home. It seems almost too good to be true." I say toweling my hair and neck in rough, brief strokes.

"You suspect him of ulterior motives?"

"He's tried to take this city from me twice, old friend. He's nearly succeeded in killing each of the other boys on various occasions because of their allegiance to me. And how many times has he tried to murder me personally?"

"But you are still open to the possibility of redemption for the lad?"

"Despite everything that has happened between us and in spite of everything he has done in the name of 'justice', Jason is not a monster. He is not beyond redemption." I suddenly find the old man's hand on my shoulder. I turn to look at him; Alfred is offering a supportive smile.

"And are you hopeful he will attain it?" My instincts tell me to answer 'no'. Every inch of my being tells me that this young man is beyond saving, every part of me that belongs to The Batman and the darkness of my soul tell me there is no silver lining for this boy. But these sentiments are not mine; they do not come from my heart, merely the cold logic of my head. They base their answers on calculations and fact, completely devoid of emotion. Jason as he is presently does not require logic, merely understanding. When I answer, for the first time in a long while, I sound like Bruce Wayne.

"Yes. Very much so."

**Jason**

I've been hanging around the study for almost twenty minutes. Amazingly, I'm not bored yet. This room and everything in it belongs to another era. The interior decorating is at least fifty years out of fashion, all patterned wallpaper and heavy curtaining. It's also pretty bare in here, nothing but the colossal mahogany desk, a couple of high-backed armchairs and about four very neat, steel filing cabinets situated behind the desk. This place wasn't just Thomas Wayne's study; it was also Bruce's grandfather's study and appears untouched by the hands of time. Clearly Al does a remarkable job of maintaining this tomb. As a kid living in this house, I was only ever called into this place once. It was not pleasant.

I must've been floating around sixteen when Bruce told me he wanted to see me in his study. Just him saying that made me feel cold; we'd only ever argued in the cave up until that point, never a confined, controlled space like this. Even though I knew nothing he had to say could hurt me and even though I definitely knew he would never hit me, I was scared going to the study. I remember knocking on the door and my palms were sweating. I honestly thought this would be the conversation where he finally disowned me and threw me back into the system, his breaking point well and truly surpassed. I thought I'd be on my way to a foster home that very afternoon. When I went in, he was sat perfectly still behind the desk, his hands resting on the tabletop. When I went to sit down, he told me to remain standing. I held my breath.

What happened next convinced me I would never be welcome in this house again once I chose to leave. He told me he had made a mistake letting me wear the costume. He told me he regretted ever training me. He told me he wished we had never met one another. He didn't shout or yell any of this; he spoke in a calm and level voice, detached from the subject he was commenting on. It gave the impression he no longer cared about me enough to bother shouting or trying to get me on his side. It made me think he was tired of trying to make things better between us, that our relationship had no future. But he said nothing about sending me back into care, nothing about stripping me of the mantle, not even anything on what was going to happen from now on; he just told me to leave his sight. He said all those horrible, crushing things to me and then expected me to carry on as normal, like it was a casual observation, something trivial or elementary, along the same lines as what time dinner was being served or to tidy my room. At that moment, I actually wanted to just die. It was the lowest point our relationship ever got to and the one instant I considered suicide.

I'm still thinking about that agonizing memory when the big man eventually wanders in. He's dressed in a shirt and slacks, black shoes on his feet; always the professional. He apologizes for being late and offers me the chair behind the desk. I look at him in disbelief; nobody sits in that chair but him. Besides which I don't want to sit there, a seat frequented only by the most powerful and influential family in Gotham; I feel small and unimportant enough without being reminded of who I'm speaking to. I settle on the desktop. Bruce sits in one of the chairs in front of the desk. He gestures to me.

"So what would you like to talk about?" Open mike night at the Wayne household. Can I really say anything I want? Talk about anything I wish? Suddenly, I can't remember what I was going to lead-in with. That memory really screwed up my train of thought. I shake my head.

"I can't remember."

"I see. Perhaps you would prefer I start?"

"Yeah sure."

"Is the room making you uncomfortable?" So he remembers. What am I saying? Of course he remembers; he remembers everything.

"You remember traumatizing me in here?"

"Yes. I apologize. Those remarks I mentioned were uncalled for. Shall we go someplace else?"

"Is this where you and your dad used to have conversations about stuff?"

"Yes."

"And now you're having a conversation with me in this room. Are you playing the dad in this scenario?"

"I'm trying to guide you. If you wish to think of it as fatherly behaviour so be it." Bruce would've made a damn good psychiatrist. The doctors at Arkham weren't this clever with me. Then again, they didn't know me like he does. He can see right through me. Nothing about me is a secret to him, not even the things I haven't told him; he's the world's greatest detective and if he wants to know something, eventually he will. I feel bitter.

"You know I loved you so much as a kid. Even when you treated me like crap I still thought you were awesome. Blind hero worship makes you forgive things you probably shouldn't." Does his expression change? Nope, not even a little. The guy's got a face of stone to hide behind. He gestures to me again.

"Care to give examples?"

"You want me to sit here and tear you apart?"

"You did it often enough as a teenager; I'm sure I can manage."

"So you've heard all the stories before. So what's the point of telling you what you already know?"

"Because it will make you feel better. Tell me how badly I treated you. Tell me how neglected and abused you feel because of me. Just tell me exactly what you think I need to hear."

I spend something like two hours ripping into the big man. I spare nothing. I rant and rave about Dick and the standards for being Robin for most of that time. I tell him how he never believed I was good enough to be his partner, his equal. I tell him how hopeless things like that made me feel, how inadequate and pathetic I started to think of myself as. I talk about how some of the things he said were worse than the physical beatings I got off my old man, how badly I was emotionally scarred living under his roof. And then I go to sparring and how hard he hit me during training sessions, how dismissive he was of my progress or achievements. I leave nothing out, not a single feeling or sentiment. I finally tell him about crying behind closed doors and drinking to help manage emotional pain and grief. He says nothing. There is no change in his face, no flicker of recognition in his eyes. He just listens in perfect silence. When I finish, somehow working myself up badly enough to be on the verge of tears, he nods in understanding.

"And what about after you came back?" Bruce inquires. The crowbar and the coffin flash across my mind. Then images of Tim kitted out as his new partner and the Joker being alive. There's a montage of my global terrorist training a moment later and then a savage recall of every single hit I took in trying to take Gotham from this family. Even though I see the answers to his question, I don't open my mouth. I just stare at him. I feel too fragile and vulnerable at the moment to speak without being betrayed by human weakness. If I try to talk now, I will cry. My head wants to explode. I've spent years trying not to think about all the things I just described to Bruce in graphic detail. Not reliving the past has kept me calm and composed. I only think about the present and immediate future, living from one moment to the next. The man sitting opposite me can see and understand all this.

"You once told me that your pain kept you strong." The big guy begins when I say nothing for three minutes. "That your suffering made you a better person. Now you need to block that out to function. Have you ever considered that letting such emotions and sentiments fester is making it worse for you when you do finally confront them? Their power gets stronger every time you ignore their presence or try to suppress it." Does he have a psychology degree or is he just drawing on his own life? I manage a reply without sounding teary.

"So what's your story?"

"I used to do exactly what you do. After Vesper Fairchild and all the surrounding drama, I realized I was better off with my family, dealing with the grief and pain, than condemning it to the furthest reaches of my psyche. It has helped enormously."

"So what do I do to be healed of my wickedness?" It's meant to be a joke, but my voice is shaking slightly.

"It may seem strange to you."

"I'll try anything. Just tell me." I'm setting up to go at any minute right now.

"Cry on someone's shoulder. Let all your pain manifest itself physically. Afterwards you'll feel better."

"That's all you got? Crying is the answer to all my problems?" I say getting off the desk. I am going to lose it if he says anything else half-decent. He stands up too. His hands are in his pockets. He shrugs his shoulders.

"It would be a start. Go lie down. You look like you could use some rest." His hand slips out his pocket and lands on my shoulder, squeezing it. "You've done enough for one day."


	4. Chapter 4

**Forge 3**

**Jason**

You know I expected this, if I'm being totally honest. When Bruce's other children came back to the nest, after their no doubt disastrous trip to Disneyland of all places, I understood they weren't going to be too thrilled to lay eyes on me. And I knew the time for talking was over before it started. That's why at this very moment I'm engaged in a three-on-one fight for my life in the library. Well, not my life; we all know most of this family aren't too keen on killing. It's probably Dicky boy and Tim trying to subdue me and the ninja brat just trying to take my head off. Either way, the assault is fractured. This makes dealing with them pretty easy.

I already know I'm heavier and stronger than any of my opponents from experience. I also have the most complete fighting style due to my travels. All of them are slightly faster than me with sharper reflexes, but my only real concern is with the devil spawn. Next to me, he probably possesses the best skill-set to take me out and the necessary drive. I feed on people like Tim who prefer intelligence over brawn and Dick who prefers ego and confidence to dictate how well he performs. My only worry is how well my body's healed up in the last couple of weeks. Well, no point putting it off any longer, I suppose; let's see who the best Robin is now.

Dick and Tim attack in tandem with the old high-low strategy. Countering it just takes timing and some serious momentum. I chose my moment perfectly to avoid Tim's high-flying kick, side-stepping and delivering a satisfying blow to his groin. By this point, Dick has changed tact and is attempting to engage me in some intense close-quarter combat, a la Bruce. Unfortunately for Golden Boy, he's NOT Bruce and therefore his incoming blows are too slow. It's clear he's not comfortable being at such close quarters with me and would prefer to fight me at distance. That's why I don't understand why he's doing…

CRACK

I think I fly six feet across the room and land flat on my back. Wow, so that's what a kick from Bruce's loins feels like. I'm on my feet in a second to find both Dick and Damian bearing down on me as a team. Crap. The kid's NOT a loose cannon anymore; I really should've done my homework on this development. The close-quarters stuff was a stalling tactic. It's clever. I bet they must've spent hours practicing that manoeuver. They both opt for high kicks. Tim is closing too, obviously with brassier balls than I gave him credit for. Right, time for some new tricks.

I drop to the floor in time to watch their feet graze my chin as they fly overhead and reach up. I've got the psycho's ankle. He crashes to the floor with a thud. While he's dazed, I maintain my grip on his ankle and spin him round my body like I'm trying to execute the hammer throw. I release him when I'm in line with Dick who stupidly tries to catch Dami in his arms. The impact of a ten-year-old hitting your chest at ten miles an hour looks damn painful from where I'm standing. Golden boy and the psycho have both wiped themselves out from the contest, leaving me alone with Timmy. Ah, Tim; you always make me smile. Here he is, back against the wall, an unassailable opponent in front of him and all the little cogs in his brain spinning at once trying to engineer a winning stratagem. I shake my head.

"Let's not fight anymore. I'm not here to fight. I'm not even armed." I say, raising my hands out to the sides in a passive gesture and hoping that leaving the most intelligent and level-headed Robin conscious is not going to backfire. Tim doesn't trust me. He's never trusted me and I don't blame him. After all, I tried to kill him once before and almost succeeded. But he's also not an idiot. He frowns.

"Bruce let you in?"

"I got carried in; I wasn't in the best of shapes at the time."

"How long?"

"Two weeks."

"Where is he?"

"Work."

Tim looks at his watch. He's thinking too hard again. He seems to look at his wrist for an age before finally looking up at me again. He practically pouts in giving his response though he's always done his best to hide his childish nature. The poor kid thinks he's a grown-up; he's gonna have to rethink that idea. "Okay. We'll all just wait until he gets here then."

"Really? You wouldn't rather ice your boys before they swell up to beach ball proportions?"

"Just shut up, Jason."

The worst thing about this whole scenario is that, out of all Bruce's wannabes, I always liked Tim the most. Maybe it's because he's everything I wasn't ever going to be. The kid is shy and retiring by nature, a little wet behind the ears and far, far too intelligent for his own good. He fights with the thing between his ears instead of the thing between his legs, something I always thought pointed to insecurities and overcompensation. I also hear he hates being branded a Wayne, even though he thinks Bruce is the best thing since sliced bread. On the plus side, the kid's definitely been laid, and with a girl to boot. Big props to Timmy for that achievement. But, as good a fighter as he is, girls don't go for him because he's a tough S.O.B; they go for Tim because of how adorable he looks all the time, especially when he's nervous or upset. Girls love sensitivity. Tim's got that in spades. That's why this scene sucks; I like a kid who fucking hates my guts. Real shame. Moving on…

"Daddy'll be home in less than an hour; maybe we should just tidy this place up. There's like body-shaped dents in the walls and stuff." I suggest only for Timmy to narrow his eyes and pretty much glare at me. His reply is sharp, but he doesn't snap it out like Golden Boy or Ninja Brat would've in the same position.

"I think we should let Dick decided what we're going to do. You gonna help me wake him up?"

"What about Dami?" The kid rolls his eyes automatically. He sighs.

"Lock him in the cupboard?"

"Now we're sharing jokes?" Tim narrows his eyes again; oh for god's sake, Timmy…stop channelling Bruce. It does not work for YOU.

"Who says I'm joking? He's going to be so pissed at you when he comes to; first thing he'll go for is your head with a sword. You want that?" I have to scoff at that prediction.

"Who beat up whom here, Timmy? I think I, the outcast, just incapacitated the three amigos single-handedly; you think one ten-year-old psycho is going to be much of a challenge for me?"

"You just re-fractured three of your ribs doing the highland toss; if he pokes you in the right spot, he's going to break them and that kid doesn't do poking." Did I say Tim was sensitive? I meant he was intuitive; not many people would've been listening to their opponent's body like that. The kid must've heard the faint grind as my ribs hit the deck. That is awesome stuff. Still, this game of going one better, isn't over. The last thing to go on me is always going to be my mouth, quipping to my grave, that's Jason Todd.

"You'd know about that, right Timmy? How big was that scar?" Yeah, I'm stirring that pot about Dami almost killing him when they first met. What's he got in reply?

"Not as big as the chip on your damn shoulder, that's for sure." Snap! That is quick AND witty for him! I am impressed.

"Your banter is so much better! I love the sarcasm, adds real pow to your…"

"Jason, please…"

I stop the exchange when I catch how tired the kid is. It's in his voice, his eyes, the way his shoulders droop…he's done playing games tonight. I can sympathize. I shrug my shoulders in lieu of saying anything. We both close in on Dick.

**Bruce**

What I arrive to when I return home is not that great of a surprise. All three of my returning children are nursing fresh bruises and cuts. Jason has secluded himself in his room. Dick wants to speak with me in private. Damian wants to decapitate our guest. Tim is curiously silent. I do not like Tim's reaction. Still, it seems he can wait to talk to me; Dick needs to talk now. We retire to my father's study where the heft and thickness of the door muffles the sound of angry voices. He begins as anticipated, with a tirade about whether or not I have lost my sanity and sense during the fortnight. It proves to be more of a soliloquy than a dialogue. Eventually though, I speak out to quiet him.

"Am I to take it that Disneyland did not work as intended?" Dick glares at me.

"Don't try to be funny, not now. What are you planning to do with him?"

"Give him a second chance."

"He's a cold-blooded killer. He threw away everything you taught him, every single moral and ethical code you tried to instil in him. He tried to kill you, me, Tim and Damian and take over this city. He doesn't deserve a second chance. He deserves a hole in the ground." There is an uncomfortable silence following this last damning statement, one I am waiting for him to retract. He relents after trying to stare me out for a minute. He normally only lasts seconds; his tenure as Batman has improved him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that last part, honest." I nod in appreciation and understanding.

"You remember his funeral, don't you?" I say to force an expression that borders on a grimace to come to Dick's face. He remembers that day a little too well. "You cried for him. And you told me afterwards that you were proud of him having your mantle, despite all his problems. And then you said, you wished things could be different…" I stand up and round the desk so that he and I are toe-to-toe. "Things are different, Dick. He is here and he is willing to try things our way. This does not excuse his past actions or give him permission to act like he is one of us, but it does give hope to solve one of this family's endless problems." I place my hand on his shoulder and grip it gently. "If you want to steer clear of him, that's fine. You don't have to be here, nor does Damian or Tim. In all honesty, this is and always has been MY problem and I am full prepared to handle it on my own. But I would very much appreciate you all to have some interaction with him." Dick just shakes his head at the idea. He does it slowly and with an air of finality about his decision.

"I do remember that day, Bruce. You're right, I cried for him. But the man out there isn't Jason. The Jason I cried for is dead and has been for years. He died in that explosion and we buried him. This new Jason is a killer and a terrorist. He can't be anything else anymore. He doesn't know how to be anything else anymore either. So, if it's all the same to you, I'll leave and take Damian with me." My hand is still on his shoulder. He has yet to ask me to remove it. I must respect his decision. Taking Damian away from this situation is the right decision in these circumstances and I appreciate his willingness to do so on my behalf. I squeeze his shoulder again.

"If you're going to leave now…"

"I am."

"Can I at least get a hug?" Dick frowns at me before raising an eyebrow at the request. In any other family such a thing would not be unusual. I have fostered an unhealthy relationship with emotions and their connotations in recent years, something I have unwittingly transferred onto my boys. But Dick has always been emotional. And he needs this.

"Are you serious? We're kind of having an argument here, not a father-son moment." I smirk at him and his bewildered tone of voice.

"And you don't love me anymore?"

"Come on…really?" He rolls his eyes repeatedly like an embarrassed teenager.

"Dick, I perhaps don't say it as often as I should, but I always miss you and the boys when you go away or I leave. And out of all my children, you and I seem the furthest away from one another at the moment. I just want to know we're okay." Dick sighs at this closing remark. He rolls his eyes just once before wrapping his arms round me. It is the most convincing hug he has given me in years. I return the favour by wrapping my arms around his back and pulling him closer to me. For one brief moment, he is a child again and I am the man he met at a funeral. We have come far since that unpleasant afternoon.

"We'll always be okay, Bruce." I let him go.

"You want to see Damian before we go?"

"I'll come by the apartment later and talk with him then. I'd really like to speak with Tim now."

"I really think Dami wants to talk to you, Bruce. He hasn't seen you in a few weeks."

"Now is not the right time. I am sure he can manage another few days without my presence."

"He's ten, Bruce."

"Now's not the right time."

"Okay then, if that's how you want it. I'll leave you to babysit your pet project. Let me know how that turns out."

"Yours too." There is no need for a parting handshake. He nods in understanding at my referral to babysitting Damian, smiles briefly at my efforts and then leaves the room. I am alone. I sit awhile in reflection before another knocks at my father's door.

"Yes?"

"It's Tim."

"Come in."

I loosen my tie as Tim enters the room. He closes the door behind him and then leans back against it. He shrugs his shoulders and then opens the conversation.

"I'm not gonna shout like Dick. I don't think you've lost your mind. I've seen that happen too many times to know the difference. And I don't wanna know what your master plan for _him_ is. I just want to know why you decided to do this now."

Tim is objective. He always has been. I admire his logical application to this situation and detachment from emotion in confronting it. Therefore, it is only fair I tell him the truth.

"I didn't want to give him a second chance. I wanted to throw him out." The boy nods.

"But he was injured."

"Yes. And then we had a conversation." Tim shrugs his shoulders again.

"And what?"

"I needed to give him a real chance, away from the authorities. He only responds to me. It's been that way since I met him." Tim gives away very little with his facial expressions. He appears impassive, even in responding.

"That's it? All he wants is a real chance at redemption?"

"Yes. What do you believe, Tim?"

"I believe I don't know him like you do. I know the facts about him, about his death, but not what that really means. I don't think he's got a snowball in hell's chance at saving himself, but if you loved him like you love me and Dick and Damian, I think you know better than anyone whether he can do it or not. And I trust your judgement. I'd…" Tim hesitates for a few moments in articulating his next thought. "I'd like to help in anyway I can."

"I've seen that scar on your chest, Tim. He nearly killed you down in that tunnel. If you don't want to have anything to do with him, I can fully understand." The boy smirks, speaking as he wanders over from the doorway to the desk.

"And leave you to do all the heavy-lifting alone? Dick might forget that Jason's not the only guest of this family, but I haven't. You need someone else to help you evaluate Scarlet for future use. I'd like to volunteer my services. Maybe I can help train her and maybe by doing that I can help with him. I know he loves her. It's your best way in." He places his hands on the desk top and leans forward.

"You think this is a battle, Tim? You're talking like we need to launch a sneak attack on these people."

"If I'm thinking it, you are too, Bruce. We still need an escape plan if this all goes wrong."

"He leaves with her. That is all the forward-planning we require at this stage of things." Tim sighs, pushing his hands off the desk and wilfully collapsing in the chair behind him. He gestures at me with a loose hand gesture.

"I hope you're right."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm just tired. Can I crash here for a few hours? Would that be okay? I just need to recharge."

"Of course. I'll have Alfred prepare your room. Did you enjoy Disneyland?" Tim finally smiles at me, an expression I have missed in the past few months. It is good to know he is still capable of enjoying himself.

"It was freaking awesome. Thanks for that."

"And Damian?"

"He'd never admit it, but I'm pretty sure he enjoyed being a ten-year-old for a while. Still wanted Mickey Mouse's scalp though. We got some interesting pictures let me tell you." I smile too.

"I can imagine. Thank you for your assistance, both for that and the current situation. It means a lot to me."

"All you have to do is ask, Bruce. You ask and I'll help. That's how this works. I gotta go lie down now. I'll catch you later." Tim says getting to his feet and preparing to leave.

"Will you be joining us for dinner?" I ask. The boy considers the matter for a long time before answering.

"I'll think about it."


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Short and concise, this is only a bridging chapter to pave the way for later updates. A longer entry involving Dick, Damian and Tim's points of view on Jason will follow before the end of next week, ending September 16th. Enjoy. **

**Forge 4**

_The boy is a fighter, of this there can be no doubt,_

_He wanders forward, battle lines already drawn out._

_There is no convincing him such bravado ends only in tears,_

_This boy, this fighter, is in possession of no fears._

_He knows nothing of peace, of love or of sorrow,_

_All he knows is the absence of tomorrow._

_Beyond the battles, the blood and the strange rules of war,_

_This boy has nothing else worth living for._

_When he finally falls, cold and dead upon the ground,_

_The boy departs this life, without a single sound._

_This boy was a fighter, of this there can be no doubt,_

_He lies, dead and buried, but the battle lines are __still__ drawn out._

The Good Soldier by Jack Owens

**Jason**

And then I wake up. It's night at this house and I lie awake for the next hour thinking about nothing in particular. I like to imagine this is how I spent most of my time when I was a corpse rotting in the ground. I must have been so much at peace. I'd bank that being dead was the most peace I'm ever going to experience in this world. Not that I wish I was dead or anything; I mean, I'm stoked to be alive, but it makes you wonder what the real price of tranquillity and calm really is. After a little philosophical bullshit, I often feel the need to hit something if only to dislodge all this metaphysical crap from my head. So I roll out of bed, throw on some workout sweats and head to the gym.

The house is still as I wander downstairs, my steps struggling to make a sound in the face of such deathly quiet; it's almost as if they're afraid to, like when I was a kid of twelve or so. Whatever. It's only dark for a minute before I flick on the ring lights and the whole place gets swamped in blinding florescence. I close the gym doors behind me, thinking of Scarlet trying to sleep while something that sounds like a truck hitting a wall thunders downstairs. Yeah, I hit THAT hard. I warm up for a couple of minutes with some mobility exercises on my joints followed by a brief bout of shadow boxing. I like to practice my punches slowly before I go to work on the bag, gives a better mind/body connection for the strikes. And then I start pounding the bag.

I'm not angry or upset, mad or likely to become any of the above; I'm just calm and controlled. My hits are clean, well-timed and weighted enough to rock the bag back on its base. I cycle through single punches, jabs, hooks, uppercuts, crosses and then mix up the strikes to freestyle. I keep up a good tempo, making sure I strike at least thirty times a minute but am still maintaining decent form and competent footwork. If I'm being totally honest, my fighting skills and conditioning are past this now; if I wanted, I could bludgeon this thing with sixty strikes a minute and knock it on its ass with a single punch every time, but it's not about that. This is all about thinking what Bruce would do or Tim or Dick in the same situation. They like to pace themselves and control the rhythm of battle. I've learned the hard way that an all-out assault is the easiest way to break something…or several things. My temper just flares up and I need to control that. When I whooped all three of the big man's other kids simultaneously, I was in complete control of myself and they weren't. And it showed because they were down and out inside of five minutes. That's just never happened between us before, not without firearms anyway. And being the winner in this house against those people for those reasons, it felt fucking awesome. I felt so good afterwards, so justified in being there. For a few brief moments after I stood there triumphant and victorious and absolutely dominant, I felt like I was Bruce's kid. I felt like I'd earned that title, finally. So, running through these drills at stupid hours of the night uninterrupted is hopefully going to help me maintain that feeling and control for longer. It can only help. It can only help.

"You're good." I look to the door and find Timmy stood there still in his Red Robin costume. He's got the cowl pulled back and a highly analytical expression plastered on his face, like he's been studying me for a while. I pause to wipe the slight trickle of sweat from my forehead.

"I thought you weren't allowed to wear the pantomime outfits above ground. I suppose it does compliment your girlish figure though. Good hunting tonight Timmy?" He blanks my question and just goes on as if I never spoke.

"I don't remember you being so controlled." I roll my eyes.

"Psychopaths can be controlled, Timmy. I was plenty controlled when I stuck a batarang in your chest that time." Tim's instinctively reaction is to touch his chest. I think I struck a raw nerve. He's quick to compose himself in any case. Now he hears what I said earlier.

"The hunting was good. I counted three rapists, two child molesters and fourteen general thugs and scumbags."

"Sounds like my kind of party. You get a gift bag after you've taken down so many or just the nice pat on the head?" And then he goes right back to ignoring my responses again.

"It's a little late to be training, isn't it?"

"Yeah, I guess I'm already pretty perfect. If it ain't broke, don't fix it, right?"

"The word is 'broken'." And now he's correcting my grammar, fantastic.

"Oh, I'm sorry Mr English language buff for my blue-collar manner of speaking in pismonouncing my worms."

"Ronnie Barker." So, he knows about Spoonerisms, that famous verbal tic of British comedian Ronnie Barker, an icon of 70s British television. I do have to say I'm impressed and raise my eyebrows accordingly.

"Oh, a student of the classics, huh? Marx Brothers or the Three Stooges?"

"Marx Brothers." Bruce has corrupted this one. Marx Brothers are NOT funny. I told Bruce that a million times as a kid but he wouldn't listen to reason or sense. Three Stooges are the only way to do classic comedy. I nod my head.

"You're a loser." I return to the bag and begin to hit again. Then something strikes me and I stop. Tim's still there, surprisingly enough. "What's your verdict on Scarlet? She good enough or what?"

"You don't care what I think." He sounds a little terse just now and maybe a little petulant too. How old is Timmy boy anyway…thirteen or something? He should really act like a nineteen-year-old instead of nineteen going on forty. I move in closer.

"That's where you're wrong. Tell me about her. Has she got what it takes to work with you guys or what?" I stop when I'm still a good ten feet away from him; I don't want him getting nervous or trigger happy with his feet. Tim's got lethal feet. He's been working with her for three weeks and I've given them both a wide berth. Bruce says my presence at their training sessions would distract them both and I know that. So I keep my distance. I don't think I've even talked to Tim in the past twenty days. I want Scarlet to do well, I want her to impress these people and get the measure of acceptance I never could. Most of all I want Tim to say she's good enough to stand shoulder to shoulder with him on the streets. That would be such a sweet feeling for me, to know she was going to do alright with them. I wait for him to give me a reply. He's curt and to the point.

"She's good enough. I think, with maybe six months of training, she'll make his grade." I smile at him and nod in satisfaction. When I fire back a response to this vote of confidence, there are no quips, sarcasm or condescendence in my voice, only blunt sincerity in appreciation of his efforts with her.

"Thank you." Tim nods at me in mutual gratitude, probably for being borderline civilised with him for once. He seems to consider something.

"If you want to be there to support her during the training, you can you know. I don't mind."

"Yeah you do." I say to ratchet up the already palpable tension between us. There's a brief but intense silence for a few moments after before I carry on. "Besides, this kind of training as you and I both know is best done in private, not in front of an audience, no matter how supportive they are." Tim nods again. He wanders within touching distance of me. The kid grows bold.

"Look, I know Bruce thinks training Scarlet is a good idea. I just want you to know I think the same thing. I wasn't sure at first, but she's definitely got something special about her. I can see why you chose her as your partner." Tim's a good kid. He's a little wet for sure, but he's a good kid. I'm not going to ever tell him that. I just nod in agreement.

"She's special all over, Tim. She's special all over. It's probably worth nothing now, but I'm sorry about trying to kill you that time in the tunnels. It shouldn't have happened, but sometimes y'know Bruce, he makes me so mad I just lose it and do really stupid things." Tim's face doesn't change. He's probably not surprised I waded in with such a bad apology and lame excuse for my actions; he's probably been expecting it for a while and his answer to this clumsy apology is pretty predictable.

"I don't want or need your apologies, Jason. It's not the first time one of Bruce's skeletons has leapt out of the closet and nearly killed me. Damian tried it the first time I met him. I may not hold grudges like Bruce does, but I don't forgive people like you either." He doesn't sound bitter, just coldly factual about his opinions on the matter. He's good at impersonating his mentor and I guess father now too. He's a good son for the big man, all brooding and serious, just like looking in a mirror. I shouldn't smile, but I do.

"You're a smart kid. I hope she meets all your expectations." I say before turning my back on him and returning to the bag.

"I could use your opinion on something though." He tells me as I prepare to wale on the bag some more. It turns out the opinion of mine he wants is on his latest solo investigation into organised crime in Bludhaven. Most guys in his position would furnish me with a rough brief and sketch of the situation and ask me point blank for my view; Tim grabs a shower, changes into streets and then arranges to meet me in the cave some twenty minutes later. Once we're there, the kid turns on Bruce's supercomputer and populates the whole screen with statistics and graphs, police reports, rap sheets and surveillance footage. He spends the next forty minutes explaining the layout of the organised crime syndicates in excruciating detail. And when I say excruciating, I mean EXCRUCIATING; I was an inch away from slitting my own wrists. Eventually, he stops with the analytical lobotomy and pops the question. "So what's your take?"

"I don't care if you get a girlfriend, a boyfriend or a dog, but you definitely need SOMETHING ELSE in your life right now."

"I'd like a serious answer please, maybe something moderately constructive."

"New haircut? Maybe stop using lavender scented bath salts as shower gel?" Yeah, I know about that little quirk of his. I hear him sigh and slouch back in the chair.

"Just go away."

"Fine. Here's my take, Timmy. This guy you keep swooning over, Danny Cole, he's not top dog in Bludhaven's food chain. All you have to do is look at this guy's picture and you can see he's all about appearances. The way he's always dressed perfectly, the way his hair's always coiffed and the narcissistic way he carries himself says he's a straw boss for someone hiding in the shadows. Cole is Bludhaven's figurehead for organised crime, not its criminal genius. All your statistics and intelligence reports just prove he's well-connected and well-positioned to fleece someone watching that he's the main man. I think it's this guy, Eddy Valens. He has all the hallmarks of a…" I'm wasting my breath; Tim's fallen asleep in the chair. I take a quick look at the computer's clock: 4:42 a.m. This is well past his bedtime, clearly. I think about leaving him down here in the dark; it's not like I owe him anything. I bet he's punched out down here alone a bunch of times before now, the product of his own obsession and desire to be like _him_. He probably wouldn't be surprised to wake up here later and find I'd just strolled off. He probably expects it of me, a perfect example of my bitterness and contempt for him and this whole family in general. I look at him for a while.

Tim looks really uncomfortable half-slumped in that chair his frame struggles to fill. Everyone looks small in Bruce's chair though, even a big boy like me. I like Tim. I resent him too. Bruce clearly deems this short-assed little daddy's boy to be a better fit as Robin than I was. And now he's struck out on his own as Red Robin with the big guy's blessing and support. He's what they call a success story in this house, like Golden Boy. He's a Wayne. God, it tastes bitter to hear myself admit that. But it'd be stupid to deny facts I know to be true. And, even though it leaves a bad taste in my mouth to accept Tim is an improvement on his predecessor, I still like him. He's more respectful and courteous than Dick, more sociable and far more emotionally open than Bruce and just plain better than Damian. So I kick the side of the chair with enough force to jolt him back to consciousness.

"Get your ass to bed, little bird." I tell him. He rubs his eyes and shakes his head in protest.

"I'm fine. What were you saying?"

"Was that before or after you took a power nap?"

"How long was I asleep for?"

"Like twenty minutes. You need sleep."

"I'm fine."

"You need sleep. Go to bed before I pick you up and carry you upstairs." I'm pretty sure he'd swing for the fences if I made any move towards him. He knows that too, but his next remark is something of a surprise.

"Are we just going to skip dinner altogether then?" He's making highly suggestive comments here. I'm not in the mood for prolonged battles of wit. So I slam the door shut with a sneer and blunt appraisal of his charms.

"You couldn't pay me to fuck you. Get up."

"I'm still waiting for your opinion."

"I just gave you it. Go to bed. You know I'm right." Tim looks petulant again; he's used to being the clever one.

"Yeah, you're probably right. Probably." Tim sighs lethargically before rising to his feet and turning the monitor to standby. "We'll pick this up later."


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: Contained within this chapter are three viewpoints of three different characters: Dick, Tim and Damian. **

**Each expresses their thoughts on Jason and his stay in the manor. An important thing to note is that all three segments take place during the same twenty-four hour period and that Dick and Damian's thoughts and events overlap somewhat. **

**Since all three sections are told from a first person perspective, I hope all three of the boys are different enough that none of their thoughts seem interchangeable from a reader's perspective. Jason does appear, but only as a secondary character. This is about Bruce's OTHER children. Enjoy.**

**Brother Dearest**

**Dick**

I haven't been sleeping well recently. If it isn't Damian keeping me up with his tantrums and thirst for violent sparring sessions and it isn't the upturn of crime statistics across the whole of the city and it's not a midnight marathon of Scooby Doo, it's Jason. To have that psycho roosting in the manor is more than a little unsettling. And it's not just because he's an infamous terrorist and murderous vigilante; it's also because I don't like him. The guy has a bad attitude and a less than charming personality to go with it. The fact he's almost certainly a nutcase with a twisted hero worship on Bruce that lives for conflict is also a deciding factor in my choice to dislike the guy. Oh, plus the bunch of times he's tried to kill me, Tim and Damian to suit his own crazy goals. I could mention his attacks on Bruce, but let's be honest, Jason only _attempted_ to try and kill Bruce; nobody really scores a near-miss in snuffing the big man out, they can only attempt. Then there's our complicated history, his death seven years ago, the fact Bruce made him my replacement and his general bratty attitude to me, to add to the powder keg of this situation. Any way you slice it, Jason being anywhere near this family is bad news. I could go on and on listing all the reasons for loathing him, but I won't. It's nearly time to head out for patrol.

Patrols have been weird lately. I'm supposed to still be operating under my Batman persona and taking Dami with me as my Robin. Sometimes though, I ditch the suit and go back to Nightwing. Dami says he prefers me as Nightwing to Batman, but I think he always has because I'm not his daddy. Why do I do this switching act? Partly it's to keep me motivated and thinking, but it's mainly to feel like myself again. I've made Batman my own, sure, but it's not me, it's not who I really am, Nightwing is. And, despite the fact I've been playing dress-up as Batman for over a year now, it still feels more natural to hit up some thugs with eskrima sticks than batarangs. And the suit is a hell of a lot more comfortable than that damn cape too. The criminals don't know how to react to the constant switch and most of them think Nightwing is back for good in Gotham to fight alongside my Batman. Have to admit, criminal stupidity is a bonus in this place. Tonight I'm out as Nightwing after three days as Batman. My sour-faced sibling is accompanying me. He's still in a sulk over Jason and Bruce not seeing him; it's been a month. Boy, that kid can hold a grudge.

Since the big man took down the meta-human group moving in to take over the city, the nastier elements of Gotham's society have been laying low. Apparently a camera feed from the area where Bruce battled the group was leaked onto YouTube, showcasing the original Batman in full bad-ass mode. It's had over two million hits already. Both Damian and I have watched it a dozen times, mostly because he looks so awesome in the video. Even now, I still find him absolutely phenomenal. It was also pretty interesting to see how efficiently he put them down and protected Jason from further attacks despite his history with the black sheep being even more traumatic than mine. I guess he really does still care about him. It's weird.

About an hour into our usual patrol route, we run into trouble. Two rival gangs are fighting to regain lost territory and they're using incendiaries as well as bullets to settle matters. Time to step in really hard on these idiots before this game turns lethal. I shoot Dami one glance and he knows the scheme of manoeuvres for the next five minutes of combat. I had to drill it into him with hours of practice because of how hard-headed he is, but it's wedged in there, nice and tight. The kid will follow the plan because he knows it offers the best tactical advantage. So he deploys smoke pellets from his belt as I detonate gas pellets in a criss-cross dispersal pattern over the area. This hybrid cloud of blinding and choking gas mixtures blankets all the participants below, giving us the perfect cover screen to come in behind. Switching to infrared to negate the effects of the cloud, we drop down from the rooftops and take on the fifty or so score of bad guys in pre-defined quadrants. He starts as far north of my position as possible to avoid inadvertently crossing our combat arcs. Slowly, we work our way to the epicentre. I knock out most of my guys using standard fare head strikes, opting for the fastest way to get them on the floor. I know my partner will no doubt be employing his usual optimum pain and suffering strategy to deal with his targets. When I hear screaming nearby, I know I'm right. Despite a heavy amount of stray fire and Molotov cocktails flying around the place, we get the job done in good time.

When the smoke clears, I find Damian already looking bored with the situation and gazing off into space. Both his boots and gloves are saturated with other people's blood and there's a hefty pile of listless thugs crying at his feet. I watch him peer down at one goon sobbing his eyes out and know he's considering adding an exclamation point to proceedings. Instead of delivering a jaw-breaking kick though, the kid just sneers and wanders away. He's learning the art of restraint, slowly but surely. I radio the GCPD for clean-up duty but don't hang around to greet them. The situation is self-explanatory. Damian barely utters a word to me all night. He's been that way for a few days now and I'm a little worried something might really be bothering him. So, once we get back to the penthouse, I quiz him about it.

"You okay, Dami?" I ask him once we're showered and back in street clothes. He doesn't mind me calling him Dami anymore. Secretly I think he likes it. He tries to make out like he's really busy with adjusting the batarangs in his utility belt.

"I'm fine." I'm not even remotely convinced by that half-assed assurance of his. I move in closer and lean on the workbench.

"Don't give me that, shortstop. What's bothering you?" Damian's frown is clear even through his safety goggles as he continues to solder away on the internal circuitry.

"Nothing is bothering me. Go away." He's getting antsy already and I haven't even tried cracking a joke yet.

"Is Jason bothering you, big guy?" I say hovering over his shoulder. I hear him sneer.

"Hood is a nobody. He's not worth my time."

"Okay. What about Bruce?" When he involuntarily snaps the tweezers he was using to move the wires around, I know I've struck pay dirt. He tries to compose himself, reaching into the drawer for another pair.

"My father's business is no concern of mine." I roll my eyes.

"Jeez, you're THAT pissed at him?" He finally turns his head to look at me, jabs a finger in my direction and issues a warning that just simmers below all-out rage.

"Do not insinuate things you have no basis for, Grayson." Oh great, he's gone back to calling me Grayson as well, something he only does when he's really frustrated with a situation or scenario. I take hold of the hand pointing the finger and put back in his lap. I smile at him.

"You know I grew up with the same guy breathing down my neck and freezing me out of things; I know how you feel. Alfie's not here to eavesdrop and report back to him; it's just you and me. So come on," I reach up and relieve him of his goggles, placing them on the bench, "Tell me what's eating you." I let go of his hand and raise both of mine up in a passive gesture. The kid scowls at me in an eerie impression of Bruce, and then relents. Damian doesn't trust many people, but he trusts me. He doesn't like admitting it, but he trusts me. He shakes his head.

"What's he thinking, bringing this lunatic into our midst, Dick? Does Hood's history mean nothing to him? I never thought my father a foolish man, or one to suffer them lightly, but how can he embrace this filthy Lazarus pit reject without a second thought? Why isn't he back in prison, rotting with the other monsters? It's what he deserves. It's what he owes us after all the pain we've suffered at his hands. Is Father blind?" I sit down on the work stool next to him and shrug.

"Bruce always has a plan. He'd never do anything to put us in danger. But, I agree with you on Jason. He shouldn't be able to walk freely among us."

"And what is Drake doing? I know he's something of a dullard, but aligning himself to teach Hood's vile and disgusting protégé some of our tricks is just moronic. What's to stop the pair of them taking what we've taught them and using it against us?" I reach over and rub his back a few times. It normally soothes him a little. The kid is notorious for getting sore at people.

"Tim's always done his own thing. And, judging from the way he handled us back at the manor, I doubt Jason needs any new tricks; he's even handier in a fight than last time." Damian glares at me, taking my assessment of our little tussle as respect for Jason. It's not that, just an honest appraisal of his skills. He was good.

"He got lucky, nothing else. If I had not been put off by Drake's theatrics, the fight would've ended in our favour." I roll my eyes having heard it constantly over the past few weeks. Damian's just a one-man army apparently. I decide to try and go the quickest route in solving this problem.

"You want to go see Bruce tomorrow, Dami? You could him for answers yourself." I suggest. The kid scoffs derisively at the idea.

"He won't see me. He never wants to see me. I would entertain the notion you enjoy my company more than he does." Oh, no, Dami's doing his bitter and unloved son routine, the one where he decides Bruce hates him and would prefer a world with him in it. It's a real downer of a mood swing. I try to salvage it anyway.

"That's not true. He loves you."

"He has a peculiar way of showing it." Oh no, head's dropping fast here, I'm losing him. I put my hand on his shoulder and squeeze it gently. I lock my eyes into his and give him a promise and proposition.

"We'll swing by the manor tomorrow and see him. I promise. Right now, let's get in some ice-cream and a Terminator film. I'm thinking cookie dough and T2?" Let me be clear, I know the kid is ten and that Arnie's iconic films are NOT all that child-friendly, but he deals with worse every night. Plus, I really want some sugar and cookie dough ice cream is AMAZING for it. He finally gives me a smile back and nods his head.

"That sounds…agreeable." Yeah, deep down you're just like any other kid who hasn't discovered girls yet; you want ice cream and R-rated movies. That's what we call an easy fix. Don't get me wrong, a lot of time this ploy doesn't fly and Damian bites, but it's getting better all the time. I know he's a pain in the butt, even for a ten-year-old, but if you've spent as much time with him as I have, you know his heart is in the right place. And I kinda like the fact he sort of resembles a miniature version of Bruce in as far as he looks and how serious he gets. Truth be told, I love him. I love him as much as I love Tim and Alfie because, despite all his problems the kid is a Wayne and he's family. You gotta love your family…

Jason doesn't count.

**Tim**

"Maintain your balance." I tell her as she struggles to sustain her latest handstand for the three minutes required. Scarlet is breezing through the conditioning tests so far, something Bruce is a little astonished by. So am I if I'm honest. She's ten times better conditioned physically than I was expecting and performing well above my standards which serve as a good precursor to _his_ standards. Jason trained her well. I often forget his training is equal to mine and was in many ways tougher too, especially his later training as Red Hood. Scarlet's approaching the last ten seconds of the hold and bathed in sweat, but holding firm again after a wobble. She's mentally well-equipped for this kind of training too, something I think is largely down to her rather than her mentor; Jason's never been the most mentally stable guy in the world, although he deserves props for coming back from the dead; that takes some fortitude. The time runs out. I click the stopwatch.

"Stop. Take a breather." She nearly collapses in coming off the platform in a scene I remember happening to me so many times before. It's pain and suffering you never forget. I watch her shake out her shoulders and grimace as waste products do their best to negate her efforts. Scarlet's tough though, she can take it. She gathers herself together and smiles at me.

"You're a slave driver, Tim, an absolute slave driver." I return her smile. I think her best asset in this pressure cooker of a secret club is her good sense of humour. Whenever she fails she laughs it off, but she always refocuses the next time. She never lets her concentration drop just because something's funny. All in all, Scarlet's a good student and can only improve.

"Only another hour left to go. Drop and give me two hundred push-ups, twenty sets maximum to completion. Go." No arguments, no excuses, she just hits the deck and starts squeezing them out with perfect form. I love it.

After the session is over, one in which she made the grade to move on, I let her go and admin herself while I record her progress in the training log. I prefer to log these kinds of statistics by hand, just because it's easy to destroy if things go pear-shaped; our training methods have to remain exclusive if we're to remain elite. I wander into the second drawing room where I keep it and have to stop. Jason's in the room, leafing through one of the older training logs. He's got a big grin on his face and is shaking his head every now and then. I haven't seen him for the last four days, not since that night in the cave. I'm surprised he's got such good manners given his difficulty with keeping his distance in the past. I cough to give myself away to him. He jerks his head in my direction and grins even wider. I honestly think he likes me.

"Hey Timmy." He says in a friendly tone of voice. It still makes me suspicious.

"Hello. What are you doing in here?" Jason shrugs his shoulders before gesturing to the log in his hand.

"Just checking out my old scores from training. You know I could bench 225 when I was thirteen? Pretty sick, right?" It's not sick, more like outrageous. I struggled to bench that when I was fifteen, never mind younger. Jason always had that reputation for being the strongest Robin of us all, one of his few distinctions in the mantle. I'm curious now.

"How much do you bench nowadays?"

"605. I can only squeeze one rep out with it, but with 570 I can manage eight good ones." He says it casually and without even looking at me; he's back in the book again. I suppose if you weigh 225 and are as strong as he is, being able to press nearly three times your own weight is standard fare. I nod in approval.

"I need to input some scores for Scarlet. Can you pass me the purple log over there?" I ask pointing to the file I want near his head. He tosses it to me without another word. I take out a pen and begin to write. I hear him moving towards me.

"So, how's my girl doing? She past the halfway stage yet? What is this, Week Five?" I don't like him being near me. It still reminds me of the tunnels, something I hate to think about let alone re-enact. Despite his behaviour, I can't shake the idea he's only one step away from trying to kill me again. I answer him anyway.

"Yeah, she's only got the last conditioning test to run through and then we can move on to the exams." Jason sucks his teeth.

"I always hated the written stuff. I mean ninety-five per cent for a pass mark? The exams are like four hours long! You think she'll be okay with the theory side of things? I haven't exactly been forcing her to learn the hallmarks of subterranean combat missions off by heart recently." Jason really cares about Scarlet, I mean, REALLY cares about her. Whenever she comes up, he always wants to talk about her, always wants to know how she's doing. It's nice he cares so much about another human being besides himself. It can't be easy given the emotional damage he's been dealt over the years. Sometimes at night, I hear them talking and laughing in her room. He tells her a lot of stories and spends a lot of time with her. I know there's nothing sexual going on, but they are extremely close, almost like siblings. He's never too busy to blank her, never. Because it's obvious how important she is to him, I give him a straight answer.

"She might struggle a little bit, but if you just go through some of the material with her on a night, she'll be fine." Jason nods at me in agreement. Then he smirks.

"She likes you, y'know, thinks you're cute." I try not to blush at that, something I'm bad for doing. He doesn't stop there. "Scarlet's really good at picking them too. If she says you're a good guy, chances are you are. It's good for her too because she's a little shy sometimes around strangers, goes into her shell. I'm glad you guys get on." I finish writing down the numbers and replace the folder on the shelf. "Do you like her, Timmy?"

"She's a good person." Jason nods and winks at me in something like gratitude before preparing to walk out the room. If he's going to hang around much longer, I'm going to have to make a better effort at conversation with him. Why wait?

"How are things going with Bruce?" I ask before he passes through the doorframe. He stops dead and turns back to face me, frowning. For a few moments I think asking him was a mistake, then he shrugs.

"We're working through the issues inch by inch. There's a hell of a back catalogue though." I've only ever really heard one-sided stories and cryptic clues when it comes to Jason's tenure as Robin; nobody really wants to talk about that time or Jason in general. Ever since I first got the job, I've wondered if it wasn't just Jason's death that made everyone so tight-lipped about him. I pop the question.

"Did you guys really have that much baggage back then? Sometimes you spend four hours in his study together. What are you guys talking about in there?" His smile returns accompanied by a tired sigh.

"Everything, Timmy, every little detail of every argument and bad turn our relationship has to give. It's pretty heavy stuff, our history."

"So I keep getting told. Did you ever really love him?" Jason laughs and shakes his head.

"Right up until my very last moments on this Earth, I loved and hated that man more than anyone else in my entire life. Even now, it's the same. He's impossible to shake once he's in your head, Timmy. Once he's got you, he'll never really let you leave. You never forget a man like that, not when you've seen him in his entirety and for everything he is and can be to you." I've never heard Jason come close to mentioning Bruce in those terms. The man is deep inside his head, just like he is in mine. Bruce just has a way about him of doing that to people. It almost seems supernatural at times. It's amazing how civilised Jason can be when he chooses to be. I don't think I've ever had the pleasure of a normal conversation with him yet. Maybe I can change that.

"Would you mind if I joined you for dinner tonight?" I really don't know why I'm jumping in at the deep end when I've not even dipped a toe in the shallows, but I sense this is a good opportunity to build something other than contempt. He looks unconvinced.

"Wouldn't you prefer to eat with Scarlet and Bruce? I'm sure they'd miss your company tonight."

"Believe it or not, Bruce and Scarlet have actually got a good rapport going." He looks incredulous at the claim.

"You're kidding me."

"You know how Scarlet's really into fashion design?" Jason frowns, unsure of where I'm leading with this.

"Yeah…"

"Well, Bruce goes to a lot of fashion premieres to keep up appearances on the international scene. They talk about the fashion designs he describes to her. It's weird to sit there and listen to it, but they can hold a pretty long conversation all on their own." He still looks suspicious.

"How long?"

"Like an hour."

"Jesus, he's talented. I can't stand talking with her about that crap for more than ten minutes." He grins at me, "You don't think he's, you know…" Really? You think he's that shallow a person that he'll jump on anybody?

"God no! He's only trying to be nice."

"It'd be nice to have more than Al for company for once. You sure you're alright breaking bread with me…and dipping it in soup? I know I'm not on your shortlist for best friend of the year right about now…"

"The polls haven't quite closed yet. There's still time for a late push on this one." He seems impressed I gave a snappy answer to his quips. He nods at me.

"Okay, it's a date. I'll pick you up at six."

"Don't go too far, Jason."

"Right, right. This'll be fun. We can chat and stuff. See you later, Timmy boy."

Am I mad?

**Damian**

I cannot decide which is more uncomfortable; my bed here in the penthouse or the one at my father's house. Both mattresses are too soft and all the bed linen is too thick for adequate sleep. I often resort to sleeping on the floor most nights. I find it often benefits my spine and gifts better sleep because of it. Tonight I am on the floor. Dick insists on maintaining a high ambient temperature in the penthouse, something I find both wasteful and unnecessary. I struggle to fall into sleep deep enough to be useful. I keep thinking about Todd sleeping under my father's roof and that horrid girl he cavorts around with. Drake too upsets my rhythm. The one who most unsettles my chain of thought though is my father. Sometimes I believe he must hate me or why else would this family's enemy sleep in his house while his biological son is cast out? His refusal to see or speak to me is also unwelcome. Have I offended him in some way or has Todd simply become a more important figure in his life? I shudder to think such a hypothesis could be true; if it were, I could no longer associate with these people. I gave up everything my mother offered for this life. I gave up the world itself for this opportunity to fight crime alongside my father. If this is my reward, I would prefer the punishment.

Perhaps I would still side with Dick Grayson. Despite his many puerile and childish traits, I find him the most tolerable member of this household. And he has earned my respect. Not like Drake, who is nothing but a hindrance and a leech on my father and his work. I find him deplorable and lacking in basic ability. But Dick, Dick is a worthy predecessor to the Robin mantle. I can understand how Robin became so integral to the Batman mythology when reviewing Dick's input in my father's investigations. They are substantial to say the least. Therefore I consider him an ally and maybe even a friend I can rely on. If Dick wished me to remain as his partner, I would do so. I hope he is grateful for the honour; I do not give it lightly.

After a period of two hours, I find I am still awake and no closer to achieving sleep. My frustrations convince me to get up and go to the lounge. I switch on the idiot box and watch some infantile programming about pregnant teenagers and obese women for a while, hoping my repulsion at such creatures will convince me to try sleeping again. After twenty minutes of what can only be adequately described as dross, Dick wanders into the room, looking half-awake. Pennyworth at this point would chide me for the late hour and urge me back to bed, actions I think unsuitable for a servant. Dick's handling of such a situation has always been looser.

"If you're going to stay up late, Dami, can you turn the TV down?" He asks me softly. Pennyworth should learn that manners and proper respect cost nothing but a little of one's pride. I nod.

"Yes, Dick." I feel a little of my own pride slip away with my compliance, but I no longer mind such indignities. After a few minutes, he is still in the room.

"Is it your bed again? Look, I told the bed company to…" He begins only for me to cut him off.

"It is not the bed. I am merely deep in thought." I hear him sigh, a habit I find discourteous, but have learned to tolerate.

"Bruce is still pissing you off huh? After all the ice-cream and violent films, you're still mad at him." I like Dick, but his grasp of cause and effect are somewhat lacking. I am kind enough to explain the problem to him.

"Nothing has changed yet."

"Well, watching this garbage is only going to make you angrier."

"I believe I have realised that. What would you suggest?" Although the majority of his suggestions are asinine, he is often very apt in these types of situations and his advice would be appreciated.

"Try to go to sleep again. If you want, you can sleep in my bed. The mattress is a lot firmer and I only have those thin sheets you like so you'll probably be able to get settled better. It beats sleeping on the floor." It is a tempting offer, one I find to my liking. I am curious as to where he plans to go however.

"And where will you sleep?" I ask. He frowns at me.

"In the bed. It's a double."

"Is that not inappropriate?" It is a perfectly logical query given that he is in his late twenties and I am ten years old. I have read Gotham crime statistics enough to know the possibility of sexual assault towards a child in this city is one in nine, a disgusting indication of the filth inhabiting its confines. Dick seems stunned by this question.

"You're my kid brother and a master martial artist; I have no desires towards you whatsoever. I'm not too keen on getting my head ripped off." That he considers me his brother is interesting but not accurate in the slightest; I share as much DNA with him as I do the drunk in the alley downstairs and am just as reluctant to jump into bed with him. But it is late and I am tired of failure in my own room. I accept his offer.

His bed proves suitable for my requirements. I settle down and feel myself drifting. I wake up some time later and find I have strayed onto his side of the bed. I am about to move only to find my body is unwilling to obey me. Dick rolls from his stomach onto his back, trapping my arm beneath it. As I struggle to free myself from his ponderous bulk, he shifts again, this time onto his side. He is now facing me whilst my arm remains pinned. I am thankful we both wear pyjamas to bed or this would be an even more precarious position. I forcibly shove him away and manage to retrieve my arm only for his arms to push me close to his chest. By this time I am too tangled in his limbs to engineer an escape, a bizarre position I believe I have brought on myself. I attempt to free myself from his grasp, but his bodyweight proves too much without the aid of brute force. He is lucky I do not feel the need to kick him; I am not uncomfortable at present and can stand such intimate proximity for the foreseeable future. The sensation of being embraced by another person is almost pleasant. I feel safe for some unknown reason and altogether easy with the action. I settle back to sleep.

I am awoken by someone ruffling my hair, presumably Dick. Opening my eyes finds I am still stuck in his arms. When I glance up I find him smiling down at me.

"Is this your definition of appropriate behaviour, Dami?" He asks. I correct him immediately.

"You and your ridiculous dimensions made it impossible for me to find an escape route. You sleep like a cephalopod." He continues to grin inanely.

"Yeah, I'm kinda clingy. You could've just kicked me."

"The force needed would've broken three of your ribs."

"You know, you are only ten years old; it's okay if you liked being cuddled." What is this predilection these people have for believing I am vulnerable in any way because of my age? It is a falsehood I cannot seem to get through to them, especially Dick. I sigh lethargically.

"You sound like Pennyworth."

"I think people would like you more if you were asleep most of the time." Oh no; he has already begun producing poor jokes and the morning has only just started. I glare at him.

"And people would suffer you with far greater ease if you had no vocal chords." He laughs believing me to be joining him in the humour. I am serious. He ruffles my hair again.

"Come on, honestly, do you like being cuddled? Every kid likes being cuddled."

"Dick, you spent a long time earning my respect. Now that you have it, are you really willing to lose it over such a trivial thing as taking a matter too far?" He does not reply, but merely stares down at me, still smiling.

"That's not an answer. You either admit to this or you admit you love me like a brother. Which is it going to be?" I feel I am being pressganged at present. I am also aware that I do not help myself by remaining in such an intimate position with him. Even with no-one else here, I am loathe to utter any proclamation for his satisfaction, false or otherwise. I attempt to shift away only for Dick to hold firm. I begin to struggle wildly to break his hold, only to find all my efforts are futile against his superior muscle mass. "Oh no, you're not going anywhere without giving some kind of confession! Let's hear it, Dami!" He is insufferably rambunctious this morning, evidently having enjoyed a good night's sleep. I hate him in these moods; he becomes unreasonable. I have no alternative but to give him something or he will never cease. I sigh.

"The first one is true." He is not satisfied.

"I forget which one was that? Please say it in full to jog my memory." I roll my eyes. Fine…

"I enjoy being cuddled." Dick nods.

"Yeah, you do." He releases his grip on me and I push away instantly retracting my statement despite it unfortunately being accurate.

"It was all lies." I say adamantly. Dick shrugs and throws off the covers, speaking as he gets out of bed.

"Whatever, cuddle boy. I'll stick some pop-tarts in the toaster and after breakfast and cartoons we'll set off for the big confrontation scene at the house. Happy?" I hate cartoons…except Dragonball Z. I nod distancing myself from the bed. I look at Dick.

"Do not tell Drake about this incident."

"Scout's honour. Let's get this show on the road!"


	7. Chapter 7

**Forge 5 Part 1**

**Author's Note: Bruce's point of view only on this instalment. On the next instalment, we'll hear from Tim, Jason and Damian. This is a short chapter constructed entirely to bridge the gap between my last chapter and the ones succeeding this. Enjoy.**

**Bruce**

Tonight's patrol has been one of reconnaissance only. It is somewhat appreciated and reviled at the same time; I had intended to sharpen my tactics for further battles with The Consortium, but have found Gotham's degenerates surprisingly lacking an appetite for conflict. My reconnaissance therefore centred on investigating why the criminal population is keeping such a low profile. It was interesting to learn that my battle with The Consortium some weeks ago is at the root of this situation. According to sources, a viral video of the confrontation was leaked on all social networking and video websites and viewed quite extensively. Despite being of a relatively low quality, the video clearly shows my most effective battle movements and seems to be a powerful deterrent for their actions. I am aware it will not last long but it is satisfying while this peace exists. The current whereabouts of The Consortium are still unknown and that too is satisfying to know. They are lying low because they have yet to find a way to counter me in combat and while they lay low, they cannot pursue more of Gotham's gangland territories. With Dick and Damian covering all areas I cannot and Barbara and Tim providing over watch capabilities, I am confident we can begin the process of giving control of certain regions back to GCPD hands and slowly weed out criminal influence altogether in smaller districts. The plan is ambitious and will require months of work to properly implement, but I am confident and that is important. That is the key to success.

My return to the cave is met with a familiar silence and blackness. I now have to call for the lighting if I wish it on during early morning hours, a measure of Alfred's design to save money now that Batman Incorporated is up and running. Privately, I find the idea absurd given our current finances, but the old man insists and I humour him accordingly. When I park up, I call for the lights. As the fluorescence floods the space I scan the cave. There is nobody here. That is good; I do not wish to deal with any complex issues tonight as my recent sessions with Jason have exhausted me. I service the car, replace my armour and ancillaries in the armoury, change into civilian clothes and ascend to the manor.

The house is also bathed in darkness as I cross the library and begin to climb the master staircase. It would appear all the members of this household are at rest and I am thankful for this peace that parallels the streets outside. I want this new dynamic to work and I want us to be united in our efforts. In short, I want us to be a family and better off because of it. I believe Scarlet will encounter no real opposition in this venture, but Jason is still a lukewarm advocate, both with the others and his own willingness to commit to the change. He is trying extremely hard to refrain from past habits and to be an active member in the house, but it is still difficult for him. There is still so much emotional baggage to work through and so much personal pain and torment to surmount. But he is trying. That is enough. For now, that is enough.

I find myself in front of Jason's room. I want to check on him, just to be certain he is sleeping. I gently open the door and see his silhouette huddled underneath the bedcovers. I will not lie: I am still angry at him for his past actions and infuriated on some level at the sight of him sleeping in my house. This bitterness and the feelings of betrayal for those he has murdered in cold blood will probably never be buried deep enough to forget, but I am also thankful he has come back to me. Although extenuating circumstances meant he did not arrive willingly, his decision to stay and try to return to the fold is admirable. We were never close, but that seems irrelevant now. We are both trying.

I approach the side of the bed. Despite his youthful features, Jason dispels any notion he is not dangerous with his physique. Unlike my own, the boy's body is not perfectly balanced due to the thirty-five additional pounds of muscle he carries on a frame designed to operate at peak efficiency at around one-hundred-and-eighty-five pounds. The majority of his additional mass is found in his upper body despite possessing an already almost freakish level of strength for his size. I would estimate his arms to be almost equal in size to mine and his chest and back to outsize mine by at least two inches. It is highly impressive that, even at his somewhat bloated bodyweight, the boy possesses virtually no body fat. His skin is tight against the muscles beneath and his abdominals are thick without being distended or retaining water. It is remarkable to think he is only twenty-four. He stirs but does not wake up as I sit in the chair opposite the bed and watch him for a time.

The funeral is still at the back of my mind when I look at him. The still, stone-like properties of his body on that day and look of anguish on his face as I held him in the chapel are still there when I watch the rise and fall of his ribcage and serene quality of his features. I have never truly experienced death the way he has. I probably never will and I am glad. It must have been horrifying. He claims not to remember it or his resurrection, but I know better. The boy remembers something; I could see it in his eyes, well hidden, but still present.

I am not sure how long I have been watching him, but it seems long enough for one night. A short while later, I get up and leave, closing the door behind me. I go to bed and sleep.

I have only just arrived at my office the following morning when my secretary calls through on the intercom. I am surprised; I have no scheduled meetings arranged until shortly after ten. I press the buzzer.

"Yes, Jean?"

"_Your sons are here to see you, Mr Wayne." _I do not like this situation. If any of them wish to speak to me they must call beforehand. It is a courtesy I expect of all of them and is also one they habitually break. However, it is rare to have them interrupt me at Wayne Enterprises despite the fact they all have positions here. I am certain it will be Dick and Damian and prepare myself for their imminent arrival.

"I guess you can send them in, Jean."

I am proven correct moments later when Damian almost breaks the door in walking through. Dick follows shortly after. Both are dressed in casual clothes as they approach me. Judging from Damian's dour expression and Dick's unusually frank disposition, they are not here to discuss business in any form. I remain seated behind my desk as Damian draws level.

"You should have called ahead." I say to open conversation.

"And you should not ignore me, Father. You are aware it is Saturday? Ordinarily you do not work on weekends." I immediately understand what the boy is insinuating and am offended by it; he thinks I came to work today for the sole intention of avoiding him. That is not true; my actual intentions were to use Wayne Enterprises new forensic laboratories to analyse trace evidence in the hopes it would lead to The Consortium's safe house. I also wished to contact Jim Gordon and arrange for his department to trial new protective equipment under field conditions. The equipment had already passed stringent safety testing and I was eager to see if it could aid in reducing injuries caused by meta-human attacks. I did not come here to avoid my own child. I do not correct him though; it is an unwise strategy to adopt with Damian. So I relent.

"You are right, Damian; recently I have not worked weekends due to the workload of running Batman Incorporated and Wayne Enterprises simultaneously. However, certain discoveries required my immediate attention and necessitated coming here this morning. But rest assured if you had called ahead, I would not have come in until this afternoon." It is apparent that Damian does not believe me in the slightest. Dick too seems less than convinced with my explanations. He remains silent as Damian offers a retort.

"I doubt if these 'discoveries' truly required your immediate attention that regardless of whether I called ahead or not you would still have ignored me. This is the only way I can assure you will see me." The boy is astute. I should have guessed as much given his lineage and training. I did not however anticipate Dick disregarding my wishes and allowing the boy not only to come here unannounced but also pick some kind of fight. I turn to look at him.

"Dick, will you step outside for a moment please? I wish to speak to Damian alone." Dick obliges and exits the office without a single word. I do not like silence on him; it usually indicates bad news. I turn my attentions back to the angry boy at the side of my chair. "I am sorry for ignoring you, son. What can I do to make this better?" Damian scoffs at me.

"If you were any kind of father you would know what you can do in this situation to appease me. Are you not even prepared to guess?" From the tone of his voice and body language I would be inclined to guess he wants me to rid the house of Jason and Sasha, but this is Damian and he is MY son. He often employs other issues as a smokescreen to cloud the real matter that needs addressing; this is an ingrained trait of mine that has unfortunately been passed on. Although he is slighted by Jason's renewed involvement in our lives, there is something more troubling to him about my recent behaviour. He thinks I do not trust him, more so because of Jason's arrival, and that more importantly I do not wish to spend any time with him because Jason is somehow more interesting to me than he is and therefore more important. This equation can only come from a ten-year-old. If he were an ordinary ten-year-old, I would hug him, but he is not. He is my son and he does not enjoy physical gestures of affection, again, like me.

"I know what I would do with the others if they were your age, but you do not like to be held." I say to make his expression soften slightly. He seems surprised by my answer.

"Would you hold me if I asked you to, Father?" The boy inquires with a curiosity that almost sounds childlike. It is unusual to hear him speak with anything but false bravado and condescendence. I do not hesitate to respond.

"Of course, if you asked." He frowns at my openness and seems unsure of whether to formally request such a gesture or not. He shakes his head.

"Perhaps I would not want to. Perhaps I would prefer to sit in your lap. Mother never let me sit in her lap; she said it was a prelude to emotional attachments that would hinder my ability to rule the world." I smile at this. Inside, like all children, he instinctively knows what he wants. He wants to be given affection and praise, but he cannot translate that instinct into something he can understand or process because he has been taught to ignore such feelings. He knows sitting down in my lap will make him feel better, but he cannot understand why. Talia has warped his perceptions very well to achieve this effect.

"That is what she believed. You can sit in my lap if you like." I turn my chair towards him and pat my thigh. Damian regards the invitation with trepidation for several seconds before finally succumbing to his childish side. He sits down in my lap and assesses the situation. He seems comfortable enough and I do not even notice the increase in weight; the boy is still very light and is barely twice the weight of my bat suit when it is fully laden with ancillaries.

"I like this." He announces leaning back against my chest, "Do not tell Drake…or Dick." I try my luck and bounce him in place. He makes no move against it and seemed contented enough. I do not believe he has ever been this willingly intimate with me in our whole relationship. It is pleasant, but will not sate him completely; he expects a bigger effort from me in repairing what perceived damages I have allegedly caused him.

"I will be discreet. Perhaps you would like to accompany me on a patrol tonight?"

"I would prefer silence to hackneyed jokes for a change. Are you doing anything of note tonight, Father?"

"I may be confronting The Consortium." Damian jerks his head round to look at me. His eyes are bright; evidently he has seen the video newscasters mentioned concerning my last battle with them.

"That sounds…agreeable. I will join you on patrol tonight then, Father." He says in a voice that skilfully hides his excitement.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: Slightly off in terms of pacing, but good enough for publication. Start is rushed but needed to publish anyway. Enjoy.**

**Brother Dearest 2**

**Damian**

Father is not as agile as Dick when in transit, but his movements are almost as fluid, remarkable considering both his size and lack of acrobatic lineage. I watch him carefully as we swing from building to building, looking for any signs of his age hindering him. Even though he is nearly four times my age, I find him not having to compensate or adjust for any kind of joint problem or lack of cartilage, despite his extensive scar tissue. It is remarkable. He does not look at me nor does he find my staring a distraction. My father is focused and more unflappable than any man I have ever known, even my supposed grandfather, Ra's Al Ghul. It delights me that Mother chose this man to procreate with; I would be so much less with any other man's DNA, no matter how genetically engineered it was. It is hard to believe that a boy of such privilege and status turned into such a man, even taking my grandparents' untimely deaths into account. I have always known since I first met him that it would be impossible to respect anyone else in the same way I respect him. We arrive in Park Row, another squalid area of this stinking city, and he reassesses his findings.

"The trace evidence I analysed was unable to pinpoint it to a definitive site, but I have deduced it in within this kilometre radius. The Consortium's safe house is in the nearby vicinity." I am confronted with endless condemned and crumbling structures in every direction, anyone of them a suitable candidate for a meta-human bedsit.

"There is no possibility that we can further narrow down our search grid is there, Father?" There is no reply. When I turn I find Father lying prone on his back, unconscious and unresponsive to my attempts to revive him. I hear the sound of approaching footsteps and look away from him long enough to locate six meta-humans encircling our position. I am not afraid or unnerved by the situation unfolding. They have done something to him, something to eliminate him from play. It is a smart tactic, but not without its faults; I am still conscious and I am here. It will prove to be their biggest mistake.

My guess is that they want revenge on him for exposing their limitations as a legitimate threat to the city. Whether they want to kill him or sell him to the highest bidder is irrelevant; they will all have to go through me. However, I would also imagine I'm grossly outmatched trying to defend myself and him and would not last more than a few minutes. I swallow my pride and radio Dick and Drake for assistance. Their combined ETA is three minutes. I must defend Father for three minutes. I can do that…

**Jason**

"Do you want to date Tim?" I ask Sasha as we're lazing around on the sofa watching some crappy reality show and eating popcorn. She grabs another handful of popcorn from the bowl on her stomach before shrugging.

"I don't know, I thought you'd already claimed him for yourself." Oh, she's witty and I love it. I smirk.

"What can I say? Tim's the sort of girl I'd really like to marry someday." Even without looking, I know she's just rolled her eyes.

"He's not girly and you know it."

"The boy cooks, cleans and knows a suspicious amount about Broadway musicals…he's a little girly."

"No, that's called being modern and cultured, something you should get advice on."

"Are you saying I'm not cultured, Sasha?" We lock eyes before she sighs.

"The other day you thought Schubert was a German soccer player. I mean really?"

"That's not important. And you do want to date Tim, don't you? The way you defended him just now…"

"If I didn't you might be tempted to stick a batarang in his chest again. I keep telling you about playing too rough with your brothers but you don't seem to listen."

"Hey, no bringing up that kind of evidence, it's not fair."

"Why, because you can't counter it?"

"No, because I want to move past it and be the good guy again. I want them to like me again."

"Dick and Damian will never…"

"No, not my 'family', I mean the people of Gotham. When I was a kid I loved being a role model for other people. I liked that there were kids who looked up to me in a way they could never look up to Bruce. That was special for me, Sash. For the son of a low-level street thug to become the ideal image of an all-American teenager to millions of people the world over was an unreal experience. I want some of that feeling of accomplishment back."

Sasha looks like she's about to say something profound to that, but doesn't get the chance. My new cell phone is bleeping like crazy and I barely manage to press the right button before we both go deaf. Since Tim is the one who gave me this stupid thing, I'm guessing it's him calling.

"Hey Timmy boy. Can I help you?"

"_Need your help. Pinned down by The Consortium in Crime Alley. Both batmen are down. Robin is flagging and I'm about to be lynched. Need you at our location now!"_ That's all he gets out, like it isn't enough, before I hear the familiar sound of a loud scuffle and dead tone that tells me he's about to get squashed. I put the phone on the dresser and turn to face Sasha.

"Everything alright, Jay?" She asks and for some weird reason I grin before giving her the bad news.

"Your future husband, my wicked stepfather and his ugly children are about to be wiped out by meta-human scumbags. Shall we go?" I'm already heading for the library's cave entrance before I even finish speaking. Sasha first looks shocked by the news and then rolls her eyes derisively at me whilst getting to her feet.

"Don't even joke about that." She says as we approach the grandfather clock, "He is NOT my future husband."

Not to state the obvious, but me and Scarlet are both insane charging in here. This group not only kicked my ass, but have now successfully downed Bruce, Dick and Damian and are presently putting a beat down on Tim too. Yeah, maybe they got lucky with a sneak attack, but at least they had the balls to do it and commit to it. Tim could only tell me the gist of the situation over the radio, but I definitely got the memo that they're all in serious trouble and need a super-sized bailout. Enter the outcast and his partner; it's time for Red Hood and Scarlet to save the day. I don't do stealth or 'safe' tactics in a battle; it's all about cunning and the ability to just run risks that may kill me. So here's risk one: charge in head first without any kind of fixed plan and start shooting.

Scarlet knows her cue and together we shower them in ammunition. It doesn't matter that the stuff's live; these guys are invulnerable to bullets. Hopefully they're thinking we've underestimated them. If they know we haven't, this could all end right now. They don't move, choosing to stand still and laugh at our attempts. Idiots. Next risk is to deploy red phosphorous when almost directly on top of them which may also blind us as well as them. This risk pays off too because of modifications to my helmet and Scarlet's goggles. With the group doing an impersonation of the three blind mice, groping and swinging wildly, Scarlet closes in tight with me for some hard-core double-team action.

Slipping on some electrically-charged brass knuckles, we hammer one of their strongest members in the midsection. The experience of having fifty-thousand volts delivered to his body behind heavily weighted blows, repeatedly and mercilessly, drops him in seconds. As the phosphorous' effects are beginning to wear off, we locate the only member with night-vision and quickly knock him down with an elbow strike from me that ends with a side-kick to the face from her. We hear the crunch as his jaw shatters. Before our cover goes completely, Scarlet drops smoke and CS gas pellets to keep the odds strictly in our favour. So far, we're as tight as a drum. That changes all of three seconds later when the one with mind-control powers finds us.

I equipped my helmet with audio and visual cancelling capabilities, but struggled to incorporate mental shielding without making the thing too damn heavy to wear. When I hit the deck with a voice like nails on a chalkboard screeching in my head, I know I didn't do enough. But this is an old trick and one I can solve. It takes some willpower, but I manage to reach inside my jacket and throw the prototype bomb that only detonates when in direct contact with telepathic energy. A distant scream, followed by a beautiful silence in my head means risk three just paid off too. I'm on my feet in seconds and find the smoke and CS cloud already thinning into the atmosphere. Scarlet finds me and we re-group.

"How many left?" She asks me, pressing her back to mine to give us all-around defence from attack. We see shadows beginning to push through the mist towards us. I give her the answer.

"Three."

"And they are?"

"Some gargantuan guy that's on the whole locker room's supply of juice, Mr shiny metal skin and something that might just be an overgrown and very pissed-off dog."

"So, what's the plan?"

"They're going to attack in tandem and be really mad at us now. Best bet is to do some serious acrobatics and let them hit each other. When they're on their last legs, move in for the kill." She turns her head towards me.

"You don't mean…"

"No, I don't mean_ literally_ kill them, just a figure of speech. We're the straight-laced good guys now, not the iffy vigilantes with a line in grey justice." She's happy with the brief and nods her head. Tim's lessons have really improved her toughness in a pinch; she's as reliable a partner as I'll ever need.

"Who do you want?" She asks me. The dog-like creature and my eyes meet from across the way and I know who I want. Inside the helmet, I smile.

"I'll take the big guy and the dog. You tackle the tin man there." Scarlet smirks, knowing I've got a serious thing for going toe-to-toe with the most dangerous opponents in a fight. She'll let me go; she knows I'll be just fine. Her gymnastic abilities are more than enough to keep her out of harm's way too. So she gives me the thumbs up.

"Roger that, Hood."

The dog is charging directly at me, snarling while the big gorilla is coming from my right flank. The tin-man is on a collision course with Scarlet. They wish they could intimidate us. We just calmly stand our ground and wait for them to come to us. We're both scared, naturally, but it's only because we haven't won yet. Once we see the finish line, it'll all go away. After this is over, me and Sasha are gonna laugh our asses off about this moment. They're only a couple of feet away. Steady…

"Break!" I yell. We move towards our targets and begin. The dog goes to bear-hug me, a movement I duck easily before side-stepping the gorilla's attempt at the same manoeuvre, sending them crashing into one another already. They both turn together and try and close me down from opposite sides. As soon as they lunge, I jump up and do a split-kick to avoid contact with their heads. They thud to the ground but are soon at it again. Unlike me, these big boys are actually TOO big; they carry too much mass to have my kind of stamina and endurance in a prolonged fight. After a further six minutes of ducking, bobbing and weaving out of their paths, I hear the tell-tale of laboured breathing and lethargic movement from both of them. The gorilla man is worse, but only slightly. Meanwhile, I'm as fresh as a daisy and could go on for another hour. I've taunted them all the way through to speed things up and their anger got the best of them, like it used to get of me. They've managed to get a few licks in on me, but nothing I can't take. As soon as the dog winds up for one last tilt at my head, I go in for the kill.

I parry the strike, drive my knee into its stomach, which causes it to lean over, and then heel kick it in the face. The gorilla tries to capitalize on my lack of defence, but is too slow to exploit it. I block his overhead and use my speed and his momentum to throw him over my shoulder to the ground where I leap into the air and drive my knees into his face on the way down, crushing a lot of his cranial bones. They're both out cold from the impact of my hits. When I look over, I see Scarlet has taken care of the tin-man with equal ease. She's got a bit of blood dripping from her mouth and nose, but she's standing tall. I extend my arms out to the sides.

"Red Hood and Scarlet say…"

"Let the punishment fit the crime!" She finishes with a big grin plastered across her face.

"If you're quite done gloating now…" We hear Tim murmur from his crumpled position on the floor, "Maybe you could help us out."

Tim is reasonably okay, just a few broken ribs and a mild concussion to whine about, while Dick has at least broken his collar bone and suffered some nasty looking cuts and bruises…and a concussion. The psycho ninja brat has a fractured ankle, two broken fingers and…a concussion. At first, Bruce looks very, very dead. We can't see any breathing and have no way of removing either his suit or his cowl to make sure he hasn't got a serious head injury. No need to panic though; this is Batman after all.

"I'm going to try disabling the security system in his mask." I tell Scarlet as she continues tending to the others; she's a good field medic as well as everything else now. I know Bruce isn't dead. He can't die; he's just unconscious or something. I get within an inch of his face with a scalpel and have his hand rush up and clamp down on my wrist with a strong grip.

"That will not be necessary." He tells me in a blunt, matter-of-fact tone that also lets me know he is suffering no ill-effects whatsoever. I back off and he effortlessly rises to his feet and begins to survey the area. "Damage report?"

"Everyone else got their asses kicked, but thankfully Scarlet and I were kind enough to show up and bail you guys out of trouble. I have to warn you now though, we only accept cash, no credit cards or cheques please." The big man shoots me a hard stare. Then he turns back to the others.

"Are they all stable enough to travel?" He asks looking at Damian in particular. I nod.

"Yep."

"Have you informed the GCPD and their specialist agencies to collect The Consortium for delivery to a secure holding facility?"

"They're on their way, Boss-man." Bruce looks at me again. I haven't called him Boss-man since I was a kid. His expression doesn't change, but I know he's smiling about it on the inside. He nods in satisfaction at my procedures.

"Are any of the boys in a condition that may become critical within the next thirty minutes to an hour?"

"Red Robin and Nightwing are a little trippy, but they're okay. Robin's very chatty. You might want to think about having him put down." I get another hard stare for my efforts at lightening the mood in the worst possible way. Never mind. I wait while he considers something in his mind.

"We'll hold this position until Gordon and his friends arrive to deal with these degenerates. Once they've been adequately contained and are on route to a secure facility, we'll move back to the cave." It's a couple of seconds before I realize his hand has fallen on my shoulder. Those big-ass fingers of his squeeze my flesh and he nods, "You and Scarlet performed well tonight. I am proud of both of you for your efforts. Thank you for saving us, Red Hood." I shrug my shoulders, trying to be nonchalant when all I want to do is jump and shout.

"We do what we can. You probably want me to hide in the shadows, what with being a wanted fugitive and hunted killer when Jim arrives, huh?" Bruce shakes his head whilst removing his hand.

"They should know you're aligned with us, you and Scarlet. It will no doubt send a message to the underworld concerning your position and your allies as well as demonstrating to Gordon and his men that you are far more useful in this environment than a prison cell." I am utterly unconvinced this is a smart move on anyone's part, least of all mine. I look down at the red skull symbol on my chest and consider.

"Maybe I should just ditch the identity and make a new one. It'd be easier."

"Yes, it would, but redemption is not about hiding; it is about showing people around you that you can and have changed for the better. Of course, given your past actions, there will be doubters and those who believe you are no better than these scum lying at our feet right now, but this will still go a long way to redeeming yourself in the eyes of the law." He would've made a good politician with speeches as pretty as that. He's probably right about all of that junk, but I'm still not happy standing here while the whole world tries to handcuff me.

"They'll probably want to arrest me and Scarlet." I say. The big man's lips curl into a small, but incredibly confident smile.

"Let's see them try."

So we wait and sure enough, just after the hour, the circus rolls into town. Trucks, cop cars, helicopters and swat teams all descend on us like a swarm of locusts, establishing perimeters, sniper positions and an armed guard on each prisoner. Not gonna lie, I get a lot of heat thrown directly at my face from at least ten muzzles. Scarlet also gets pinned down by numbers. Thankfully Gordon steps up and greets Bruce as a friend.

"This is good press for you." Jim tells the big man, lighting his pipe. "You haven't been seen to be doing much lately. People know the difference between you and our new guy; they get enough of him. Bringing us this gang of super-powered crazies is great, but to also collar this costumed clown and his girlfriend…"

"The Red Hood and his partner will not be joining the others in detention. They work for me now." Good ole Jim looks a little shell-shocked by this announcement. He moves in closer.

"This maniac killed god knows how many people the last time he rolled into town, not to mention the infamous poisoning incident at Blackgate. We can't let him loose."

"Let me put it another way: they are under my protection. They have chosen to renounce their former methods and adopt mine in the war on crime. They have given me their word that they will not revert to past actions and I believe them. If any of your men or those of other agencies even attempt to touch them, I will make sure tomorrow's headline looks very different." Jim won't back down from threats like that, even from Bruce. He fires back with some great conviction of his own.

"Do you honestly think you can defy me and one hundred other men on your own? I can understand if your history with these criminals is complicated, I can, but they need to go into custody and stand trial for their actions."

"That is precisely what we did last time they were apprehended. And where has that led us? They will be coming with me."

"I can't let you…"

"They will be coming with me, Jim. Don't make me do something we will both later regret. Without their help tonight, myself and my immediate allies would all be dead and The Consortium would be carving a path through the city. They have proven themselves to be on our side." He's pushing incredibly hard with this; I don't think I can even remember the last time he defended me this stubbornly. It was a long time ago. But Gordon isn't backing down, only backing up which is definitely more dangerous than it sounds; he's dangerous when cornered, always has been.

"It doesn't excuse either of them for their past actions. You seem to forget that I know _who_ you are underneath that mask. I know who you _all_ are, with the exception of this degenerate. Unless you want to force my hand, I am going to need him to come with me." Yeah, I have no doubt he knows who Batman really is; they've been friends too long not to know those kinds of details. Jim Gordon is too good of a cop and a detective not to have solved the mystery. He could sell Bruce out to the tabloids. He doesn't want to, but if he has to in order to get me back under lock and key, he will. Because, even though I'm trying to do good, putting me away is the right thing to do in this world. Regardless of their friendship, Jim's got a job to do and all credit to him for sticking to his guns, so to speak. Even if the notion was thrown out about the identities, the controversy and surveillance it would create would be enough to mess us all up. Bruce remains stone-faced, even with that level of threat hanging over him.

"Don't you trust me anymore, Jim? When have I ever given you reason to doubt me?" Gordon sighs. He sounds exhausted.

"You know I trust you, but I can't turn around to my superiors, shrug my shoulders and keep my job over this. You're asking me to choose between our friendship and my career."

"No. I'm not. Take one step back in exactly four seconds." Three seconds later, I'm on my knees wanting to vomit. A quick look around shows me I'm on a rooftop and staring down an overgrown Boy Scout in blue spandex. Superman does not look all that pleased as I clamber to my feet. I jump right in with the important stuff.

"Is she safe?" I say. The Boy Scout nods.

"He's handling matters with the commissioner. From what I can hear, he's going to win the argument." Typical Bruce, always thinking ahead. I suppose Clark was the guy he was calling while we waited for the show to start. Because he still looks so displeased with the current scenario, I shrug my shoulders.

"Don't look at me; this wasn't my idea to have you rescue my ass. Do you owe him a favour or something?" Clark sighs and shakes his head.

"He and I are even. Apparently you are turning over a new leaf, Mr Todd under Bruce's supervision. Personally I think he's mad, but what else is new? He asked me to help you escape police custody, something I was against. I think you deserve a long stretch for your particular brand of crimes, but I'd imagine I've only heard one side of the story. And I remember you as a boy, as Robin and how much I enjoyed your company when I had the opportunity to work with your mentor. So, don't think of this as me doing a favour for him, but a favour for _you_. I really hope this is a genuine effort to change your ways and come back to us. You deserve better than this, son, a lot better." The EMP pulse on my belt has knocked out all surveillance equipment within a two-block radius, despite my impromptu flight. So I remove my helmet to give my reply. The Boy Scout looks bemused by my hair colour.

"Yeah, back in black." I say running my hand through it once before I get serious. "Thanks for the favour, Clark. It means a lot you'd be willing to take a chance on me turning face again." I extend my hand out. He takes one look at the gesture and I can see the hope physically manifest itself in his eyes. The guy almost looks proud of me. His mouth breaks out into the quintessential all-American smile and he shakes my hand firmly.

"Good luck, son. Maybe I'll check in you in a while, see how you're doing." He lets go and then points a finger at me, "You just keep doing what's right and you may just win us all over eventually." Then with one of those goofy waves of his, the big guy soars off into the air and disappears from view. I replace my helmet and survey the cityscape. Now, where the hell am I?

**Bruce**

The sonic frequency used to overwhelm my nervous system was clever. The Consortium will have to have employed an expert in radio communications and sound waves in order to construct the equipment necessary. It is something I will need to investigate and counter as soon as possible. When word spreads to the streets about the success such technology had on me, other criminals will seek out its creator's services as well. Even as I stand here, arguing Red Hood's merits with Jim, I am shortlisting candidates for the weaponry. It is proving to be a very short list. When Jim tells me that I am asking him to choose between our friendship and the future of his career, I activate the homing signal for Clark.

"No. I'm not. Take one step back in exactly four seconds." Three seconds later, a blue blur seems to erase Jason from existence in the blink of an eye, leaving Gordon and all his men dumbstruck. "This is compromise, Jim." I look to the men who had been tasked with guarding the boy and issue the same statement. "This is compromise."

"Everybody back away, now. Take a walk over there." Jim says having regained his composure. He indicates the area behind him with a thumb for the men to go to. I sense he is about to say something personal to me. I activate the EMP pulse to scramble all recording and surveillance devices within a two-block radius. We are free to talk. Jim wastes no time. "Who is he? I mean who is he _really_?" Just from the tone of his voice I know he has realized the importance of the Red Hood in my life currently and perhaps detects some of the paternal concern I am attempting to suppress. When I do not give him an answer after a few tense moments, the man's eyes widen as something dawns on him. "Is he one of…is he one of your…" Jim is struggling to even articulate the thought. He briefly closes his eyes and massages his temple. When he opens them again, he asks his question calmly and in his most professional manner. "Is he one of your boys?"

"Yes."

"Well, I've seen three of them are present here. So, that would only leave one of your protégés to fill the gap. But, the one I'm thinking of, he died years ago, didn't he?" I shake my head and Jim's eyes widen again. He pushes up his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. He is becoming rattled by what such an insinuation means. I do not blame him. "You're saying the Red Hood, one of this city's most notorious criminals and a man who has killed more than two hundred people, was once Robin? More than that, you're telling me that he was not only _a_ Robin, but _the_ Robin who died all those years ago at the hands of the Joker?" I do not sugar-coat anything.

"I know it is hard to believe, much less understand, but it is a reality. He came back from the dead and he became the Red Hood. Now he is finally ready to accept help, the only help that can actually benefit him or fix him, and I must do everything within my power to ensure he comes back to us." Jim shakes his head in a combination of disbelief and exasperation at all these dark secrets emerging simultaneously. He looks at me hard and then softens. When he speaks, I hear sympathy and compassion in his voice despite the overall firmness of the delivery.

"I can't imagine how you feel knowing who he was and what he became. If he were my child and he had done these things, I'd be afraid to try anything like what you are attempting. I pray to god you know what you're doing. This kind of slope only comes in one variety; damn slippery." I consider something that may prove calamitous, but feel it can only be in the boy's best interests.

"Jim, would you be willing to talk to him?"

"What?"

"He still thinks of you as his friend. It would be appreciated if you would talk to him at the house." Jim blusters and hesitates, even laughing for a short burst, before coming to his biggest problem.

"What would I say?" It is a fair question, one which I have prepared an answer for.

"Anything would be sufficient. I fear such intense interactions with members only of his immediate family are going to create a rift between his trust of the outside world and its people. He has lived in virtual isolation for the past few years and it needs to be amended. Will you at least consider?" He takes a deep breath in and holds it for a moment before releasing. He is clearly conflicted by my request which is an unusual one even with our shared past. But, I know James Gordon. He cared deeply for Jason Todd, as he did for all those who have taken Robin's mantle. If he can help someone, especially someone he knew that well, he will do everything in his power to do so. He nods reluctantly.

"Fine dammit, I'll consider, but I can't make any promises. I'll be in touch with you at _home_ if I decide to. As for this whole situation, if anyone asks, I grilled you hard for information on his whereabouts. With his accomplice, I'll say I made a mistake in identifying her, that she wasn't the same girl. This is the story I'm taking upstairs with me and I'll stick to it, but you need to give me something to use here. These super-powered freaks are good, but in a place like this, they're a dime a dozen; I need something big to hush this other issue up. You understand me?" I nod.

"I understand, Jim. Thank you."

"The medical teams have done what they can for your boys, but they need further treatment. Take your new friend and them and leave. I'll handle the remainder of clean-up duties. Don't make me look foolish, you've done that enough to last several lifetimes. Get out of here."

**Tim**

Jason's the first thing I see when I wake up. It's still dark outside and I'm still a little spacey from the medication and the concussion, but I'm lucid enough for conversation. He's dressed in workout sweats and relaxed standing by the doorway. He smiles at me.

"I didn't mean to wake you, Timmy. Al said I should just check you weren't having trouble with anything. Poor guy is getting rushed off his feet with your other two darling brothers."

"Are they okay?"

"Yeah, just being difficult y'know. They keep trying to get out of bed."

"Sounds like this family all over."

"Yeah it is. So, are you good, Timmy boy or should I ring for Nurse Sasha to give you a sponge bath?" I laugh and then nearly bring the house down with my screaming; my ribs are on fire right now. If I didn't have this concussion I could have morphine; why do they always go for the head? When the pain subsides, I look up and see him still stood in the doorway. He didn't even move a muscle to help me.

"Maybe I should go before you literally split your sides, huh? See ya Timmy." He turns to walk out. I really don't want him to go just yet, but I can't let him think I'm soft.

"Hey, Jason?" He sticks his head round the doorframe.

"Yes?"

"Do you really remember clawing your way out of your own grave like you said?" Oh my god, what the hell have I just said? I should write a book on how to awkwardly alienate people and have that question as my primary example. The look of discomfort on his face really does tell me I'm somewhere else right now. But he doesn't close the door and head off like I thought he would. He wanders back through and scratches the back of his head.

"No. I tell everyone I do to make them feel bad, but to be honest 'no'. After Joker bludgeoned me with the tire iron, everything's kinda hazy." He crosses the room and sits down on the end of my bed. It's weird to have him so close to me and not feel defensive or just plain nervous. "I remember freeing my mother and her telling me he'd locked us in the warehouse. She sounded panicked and desperate. I don't remember the explosion or dying. It's a lot like a badly spliced movie reel, my last few moments on Earth, and the first of my new ones. There is one thing I do remember about waking up again and I'm pretty sure it was in the casket…" He's not even upset telling me this. I don't think he's gotten over it all, just accepted it as part of his life. It's pretty remarkable stuff. He starts gesturing with his hands as he describes the memory.

"It's dark and I can't see anything. And I'm terrified of it. I'm so shit-scared that my heart feels like it's gonna explode and my lungs feel like they're gonna burst out my chest. And I'm screaming, banging on something solid above me, something immovable and something final. My head's still jumbled and every part of me feels wrong and hurt and on fire. And just when it seems like I'm about to meet my end alone and in the darkness, I hear his voice. I hear Bruce's voice whispering in my ear. He only whispers one thing to me, one single sentence and something I must've heard him tell me a thousand times before on patrols when things got tough. As soon as I heard him say it, I was calm and unafraid."

"What did he say?" I ask. Jason smiles at me.

"On your feet, soldier, it's not over yet."

"That's all you needed to hear?"

"Why would I ever need to hear anything else, Tim? I mean, isn't it the same for you? When he tells you to get up, don't you get your ass up? When he tells you it's not over, don't you prepare for more? It never takes much from him to motivate you. Even when I was working against him, if I was doubting myself or hurting or in trouble, telling myself those words made me pick myself up off the canvas and go again." I understand what he means when he talks about Bruce. I feel the same way. Anything the big guy says hits you hard, good or bad, and stays with you for a long while after. Now that we're really talking, I ask him a question I've never had a serious answer to before.

"Are you sorry for what you've done?" He doesn't smirk or sneer or make any snide remarks as is his standard repertoire with a heavy-handed question like that; he's just very still and stone-faced. He shakes his head.

"Let's not go there, Timmy. I did what I thought I had to do and, at the time, I was convinced it was the right thing. That's it." Certainly sounds like it. I'm quick to apologize for putting him on the spot.

"I'm sorry if I'm pissing you off right now. I'm still pretty spaced." Jason shrugs at me.

"We've all been there, no shame in letting your mouth wander. You just get some sleep. Al will come by and check on you in the morning."

"Okay. Thanks for telling me that stuff. It can't have been easy." He reaches over and briefly squeezes my hand.

"Well, listening to that stuff is harder than it looks too. Night Tim."

"G'night Jason."


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: Here is the update. Long time coming. I wish it not to disappoint. Enjoy.**

**Connections**

**Bruce**

The Consortium's sonic capabilities, the ones used to incapacitate me, are proving difficult to trace. However, it has become apparent that the easiest way to chase black market dealings and phantom manufacturers of such devices is not through accounts or computing: it is through interrogation and fear. With that in mind, I have taken to the streets. All my cowl's electronics have been disabled to avoid any further attacks. I am alone this evening, but that is not proving to be much of a hindrance. It has taken less than two hours, five informants and six broken bones to obtain an address in Gotham Docks.

I arrive there shortly after midnight and find the warehouse premises to be empty. The alarm system guarding the building is of the most advanced technology available in the private security sector. There are motion cameras, heat sensors, and even minute vibration devices, better known as 'tremblers', to detect even the slightest elevation in noise and trigger the alarms. The whole system can be both monitored and controlled remotely from a location up to five miles away. It is an impressive set of precautions for whatever is inside...but it is not impossible to surmount. Inside this building there will be a control access panel and a power point for all the external equipment. In order to examine what is inside I must disable one or preferably both these objects. Since I am too large a mass to gain access undetected, I will have to employ other measures. I open my utility belt, place the small metallic cylinder on the ground and exit the site.

Standing on the rooftop of the warehouse adjacent to my target, I produce a palm-sized tablet with a large screen. I press the power button and wait. After several minutes, the screen displays an image of the warehouse I intend to infiltrate from a perspective similar to that of an ant. This is Wayne Tech's latest contribution to the field of robotics, a miniature mechanical device meant for delicate repairs and maintenance to otherwise inaccessible systems such as nuclear reactors, pipelines and deep water submarines. It has full mobility on eight half-inch legs and a variety of tools such as scalpels and soldering equipment at its user's disposal. This one of course has been specially modified.

It is invisible to radar, sonar and emits no heat of any kind when operating normally. Its surface also reflects rather than absorbs light, rendering it virtually invisible to surveillance systems. It makes no audible noise and is small enough to pass through any flaw or imperfection in a structure without damage. Using the touch screen functions of the tablet, I pilot the probe towards the wall. I turn it left to hug the side of the warehouse before stopping it in front of the building's main loading bay, a large winch-operated steel shutter door meant for trucks. I then select the scalpel tool, a blade commonly used in bomb disposal bots to cut detonator cord, and begin to fashion a rectangular opening at the very bottom of the door no wider than three centimeters and no taller than four. It takes the better part of an hour but eventually, the tiny entry point is ready for use. The probe lowers itself to pass through the hole and breaches the building.

The lack of light inside forces me to switch to the infrared cameras and increase its heat signature to whatever is lurking inside. Fortunately, the interior of the warehouse is not so heavily fortified with the exception of a grid laser system on the floor and perhaps as many as six conventional CCTV cameras. Due to its small size and the thermal imaging currently in use, I easily navigate it through the laser grid and locate the control panel box in the warehouse's small office block. I again employ the scalpel to break open the padlock securing the box and then examine the wiring and circuit breakers inside. To disable the system conventionally requires the input of a four digit numerical code. Since I am unable to use fingerprint powder to ascertain the numbers required, I am forced to hunt out the main power point of the system. Finding it takes the better part of another hour. It appears to be protected by a dial turn safe mechanism, something again the probe is unable to bypass. I am struggling to formulate a viable solution. After twenty minutes of further consideration, I have an idea that may or may not work. I return the probe to the control panel and maneuver it into the box itself. I then overload its receptors to trigger what I hope will be an intense but short electromagnetic pulse. The pulse will melt the probe's circuits but also the control panel. At least, that is the theory. The tablet goes blank indicating the probe is inoperable. I then descend on the warehouse.

When I neither trigger the motion sensors nor the tremblers, I know it has worked. Since there are no other entry points big enough to accommodate an individual of my size, and all external doors require keycards to release their deadbolts, I use the probe's opening in the shutter door as a handhold before bending my knees and lifting. The mechanism holding it in place is heavy: it must have a tension strength of at least eight or nine hundred pounds, well beyond the strength of most human beings. But not me. Although initial momentum is slow, after ten seconds I begin to raise the door upwards, one inch at a time. Once I have six inches of clearance space I position myself halfway under the door whilst maintaining hold. If I were to let go now, the mechanism would crash back down and crush my ribcage, probably resulting in fatal internal injuries. So I lie flat on the ground, transfer my hands sharply to the lip of the door and widen my grip to just inside shoulder-width. I am about to disable the mechanism permanently.

My maximum bench press is a few pounds short of this mechanism's tensile strength, nine hundred pounds judging by feel, so I must hope my body can handle the strain. I begin to push upwards and immediately feel my chest constrict at the effort. The pressure is beyond intense and there is such a lack of air in my lungs that I am beginning to suffer from oxygen deprivation as my heart nears a certain cardiac arrest. I push harder and summon all my reserves to the task. It seems like an age before I hear the snap of the shutter's winch. The pressure is immediately lifted as the shutter rockets up above me. I roll underneath as it crashes back down to the floor. Getting back out will now be elementary. I take nearly two minutes lying on the ground before I am able to rise back to my feet. I feel tired, but not exhausted by my effort as I turn on the micro torch in my left gauntlet. I am pleased: it is a new personal best.

A quick scan of the hundreds of industrial crates in the warehouse reveals the presence of sonic and radio technology grafted into common firearms such as pistols, rifles and semi-automatic variants of both. Whoever supplied the Consortium with the technology to disable my electronics is not a small-time player in the arms market. I estimate these arms will begin to hit the city in less than two weeks if I do not stop them here. I go into the office block. The probe is smoking slightly but not as much as the control panel itself. The pulse has rendered the entire system inoperable. This means whoever is remotely monitoring this warehouse is on their way here to investigate the problem. I do not have long to deduce an identity. I retrieve the probe before pressing the homing beacon on my belt to signal the car to my location. It will be here in less than four minutes. I break open the file cabinets in what I suspect is the main office and grab all the files contained within. I then sweep the space for hidden safes, finding one underneath the desk itself. It is one that requires a numerical code as well, eight digits. Since I do not have time to guess the digits or determine the explosive charge necessary to bypass the lock, I simply lift it from the hole it is resting in beneath the floorboards.

It weighs close to three hundred pounds but I am able to drag it and the files to the door. I lift the broken door with hardly any effort and wait outside. Forty seconds later, the car cruises up alongside my position and the roof slides back to await my entry. I fasten the safe into the passenger seat and toss the files behind the driver's seat before getting in and assuming the controls. The solution was admittedly indelicate and I would have preferred greater tact, but I have the leads for the investigation that I need. That is all that matters. I return to the cave.

**Jason**

It's been four days since Sasha and I kicked the Consortium's asses. My darling brothers are recovering quickly but are mostly confined to bed. Damian however is mobile enough to train, even with a broken ankle and fractured fingers. I find the Psycho Ninja Brat in the cave's training area, running some combat scenarios. Against the robots, the kid is barely holding his own. He's hobbling around to evade their attacks but can't land a punch or a kick because of his bad ankle making pivoting impossible and his broken fingers refusing to form a solid fist. Plus he's wearing some kind of camp spandex or Lycra singlet which is sending all the wrong messages: pure kiddy fiddler bait. As much as I would love to watch him get a severe spanking off the bots, Bruce would be pissed. So big brother Jay wades in and stops the craziness with a few big boots. The robots fall flat on their faces from the hits, I switch them off and the hell spawn tries to choke me for my troubles.

"I had it all under control, Hood! I did not need your amateurish moves to assist me!" I hear the little shit shout in my ear with the pitch and volume of a freaking fire bell. I just hate kids. Their shrill little voices are enough to drive me insane. Since he's trying to lock on and effective rear choke from what's essentially a piggy-back ride, I decide to be cruel. I counter the movement by gripping his broken fingers and crushing them in my hand. He stifles a scream and falls off immediately. I don't feel bad as I turn around and find him sat on the ground nursing his injured hand with a death stare pointed squarely in my direction. I remember when I shot him point blank in the chest. I wasn't sorry then either: kid's an arrogant little asshole at the best of times. He deserved a little reality check. I suppose when he's not at full strength he's kind of cute. Right now he looks like a mini-Bruce, some kind of crazy novelty toy. I wouldn't buy him though, too creepy a homage really. I smirk at him.

"Are you going to throw a tantrum now?"

"I should snap your neck right now and end this absurd charity my father is extending to you." He tells me coldly whilst struggling to his feet. He balances on his good leg and looks shaky at best. I could go over and knock him over again if I wanted. I doubt I'd get bored of that in a hurry.

"Maybe I should just shoot you in the head this time and end you." I reply with a grin, "You've got a nice roomy forehead…like him." Dami sneers at me.

"You were lucky to hit me last time with your aim." Yeah, like I believe I'm a bad shot. I can stick a bullet up his left nostril from the other side of the cave if I'm given the right incentive to do so. I roll my eyes.

"Look, every time you tackle me, you're the only one who ends up looking stupid. And you want to know why? Because you're fucking ten for Christ's sake. You're still three years from dropping your balls and you think you can take me?" I point to his foot, "Your ankle snapped like a twig and so will the rest of you. Don't threaten me when I could walk over there and just shatter your spine like sugar glass: it's not a smart move." I don't even wait for his pithy response: I just begin to walk away.

"He'll never love you." I stop mid-step at that rebuttal. I turn back to face him. He looks at me wistfully whilst shaking his head. "He doesn't love anyone really, even me. He's incapable of it. We're all disposal as you no doubt discovered upon your return from the dead. Drake replaced you and he did not even spare you a second thought after the swap."

"That's because he thought I was dead." I regard him warily, "You don't really think he doesn't love you, do you Dami?" The kid wrinkles his nose and stares off into the distance.

"I'm starting to." He whips his head back to glare at me, "Not that you care, Hood. You enjoy being the center of attention like some kind of media-obsessed harlot and consigning the rest of us to the back of his mind as some kind of afterthought." He says with enough bitterness and contempt to run for public office. Did I really hear him call me a harlot as an insult? Is it the nineteenth century or something? Aw, Dami's just a whiny little bitch…like every other spoilt kid his age. Maybe I should spring it on him that I banged his mom. But I relent. I thought he was just a stone-cold killer like me, but I guess not. I used to hate rich kids when I was still living with my old man. They think they own the world and everything in it. But it turns out that the brat here doesn't want the world at all…just Bruce. And it tears him up that he can't even have that to himself. I thought my pining for Bruce's affections were bad, but I wasn't raised by a super villain from birth to be the big guy's successor. He's the big guy's actual flesh and blood…and he still doesn't measure up. Ouch.

"Sure I care, little man. You think he thought much of me when I was Robin?"

"You were incompetent."

"No I was angry that he never acknowledged me. It made it harder to care. It still does." The kid looks to fire back another childish retort, but catches his breath and emits a tired sigh instead.

"He doesn't like me." He says with a frown. No,_ I_ don't like you Dami: Bruce doesn't _know_ you. He doesn't really know anyone. Okay Jay, remember, he's ten. Bring the hammer down gently.

"He doesn't understand you. He doesn't understand people in general. You know it's true. That doesn't mean he doesn't love you dumbass." I think that was a pretty subtle reply. Damian looks impressed.

"You actually have a brain. It's infantile and obtuse of course, but you do seem to possess the ability to think. I am surprised." He says scathingly. It's like he wants me to punch him repeatedly in the face. Maybe I will.

"And you're not just a Psycho Ninja Brat. You're an asshole too." This is going nowhere right now. I need an exit strategy. I consider. "I bet you like ice-cream and gore movies, don't you?" The kid eyes me suspiciously.

"Perhaps. What of it?"

"Let's go watch A Nightmare on Elm Street. At least then we don't have to talk or fight each other and if you're like every other ten-year-old I've seen you hate teenagers. Watching them get cut up by Freddie should cheer you up a bit. It might help you forget about sibling rivalry too." I can see his temper begin to flare up when I mention the word sibling. I bet he wants to tell me he has no brothers and that blood is thicker than water and all that other entitlement, birthright crap. He's opening his mouth to issue such rhetoric bullshit right now. Stop him Jay, stop him now. I close the gap between us and hoist him up by his armpits, suspending him three feet off the ground. As I suspected or rather prayed for, he does nothing to fight me. He's still too weak for real confrontation and feels eerily like a ragdoll in my hands.

"Say anything stupid and I'll drop you funnily enough to break your other ankle. Do you want ice-cream and horror movies: yes or no?" I mean it too. He knows I'm not bluffing. He glares at me for the longest time without daring to utter a syllable. Then he speaks.

"Just drop me, Hood." You fucking snot-nosed little prick. I oblige him and let go only for him to clamp his arms around my neck and halt gravity's nasty plan for him. I don't know how he managed to get down here, but I know he can't get back up the steps on one leg. He needs me. His face is so close to mine that I can feel the heat of his breath. At least he brushes his teeth. He smells weirdly like chocolate, a scent that's detectable even when hiding beneath antiseptic and creams. We look at each other in silence for a minute before either of us do anything. He's not even heavy enough to put my muscles under tension right now.

"Look if you want to kiss me, all you have to do is ask." I tell him with a smile. He scowls at me. "Say something or I'll crush your fingers again and make you let go." When he continues staring, I reach behind for his fingers.

"My answer is yes." He announces as if he never tried to play the tough guy with me just now. He's not getting away that easily.

"Say my name and we'll go." He glares at me.

"Red Hood."

"That's not it is it Dami? Try again." I say with a grin. His jaw tightens.

"Todd."

"You've got one more chance or I will launch you into the armory. Come on. It's not hard." I say turning in that direction and grabbing the seat of his singlet in preparation to throw in order to prove I'm serious. He huffs at me and I sense he'd going to swallow his pride and compromise. He stares directly in my eyes, tilts his head to one side and utters his answer as clearly as possible.

"Jason." It sends shivers down my spine: he sounds just like Bruce. I grin.

"So is there a request attached to that or not?" He frowns in confusion.

"But you said…"

"Ask me in full and we'll go. I want your best big boy voice." Goading him probably isn't a great idea, but he seems to respond better to threats and bullying than any kind of negotiation. He inhales a deep breath and commits.

"Please can we watch a horror movie and have ice-cream…Jason?" It looks like it just about kills him to say anything like that to me. I love it. I hook an arm underneath his backside to take the pressure off my back. He shifts his body into a more comfortable position. I think we have an understanding now.

"Attaboy, devil spawn."

**Bruce**

I arrive back at the cave shortly after three A.M. I dispense with my suit, shower, change into civilian clothes and recover the files from the car. I leave the safe for the time being. It takes forty minutes for the computer to scan all the files and convert them to a digital format, but once it is done I am careful to preserve the hardcopies in case they are needed as evidence against the suspect later. I retrieve the safe from the passenger seat and place it on the examination table in the laboratory. I use fingerprint powder to identify the numbers and discover that despite the code being an eight-digit combination, only four digits have been pressed: 1, 9, 8 and 0. I am convinced it is someone's birthdate with the year comprising of four numbers at the end and two digits each for month and date.

I put on a pair of latex gloves before utilizing an adhesive strip to obtain a partial fingerprint on the most used key. I scan it into the mainframe before running a comparison match through every available database. It takes less than twenty seconds to produce a string of matches and a criminal record. The man apparently in charge of the weapons operation is a Mr. Lars Nielson, a Finnish national suspected of widespread and lucrative arms trading in mainland Europe and Central Asia over a twenty-year period. An allegedly self-made millionaire with properties in thirty-one countries and powerful political connections across the globe, he has only ever been convicted once, a fraud charge in 1992 when he was barely eighteen. He served six months of a year-long sentence in his homeland and was released. Since then, none of the subsequent allegations against him, his businesses or his employees has ever made it to court, much less a trial. Currently he is based in the U.S in a city barely an hour away from Gotham.

It is safe to say that the evidence to support claims of mass arms dealing is beyond any doubt, especially after my find tonight. It is always the same with law enforcement and legalities. If one has the most expensive attorneys, the best kind of henchman and a large amount of disposable income, it is possible to talk, threaten or bribe your way out of any predicament no matter how severe the accusations or widespread the belief. This is exactly how I would imagine Nielson has evaded incarceration or detention. I will end that run of luck shortly.

I check his birth date and find it does not correlate to the code on the safe in any numerical combination. I then investigate his private life through media stories on him from mainstream European newspapers. He is married with three children, all of whom are under the age of eighteen. His first born son, Jarko, turned sixteen earlier this year, making his year of birth 1998. All his other children were born after the year 2000 so it cannot be their birthdays he utilizes as his code. Although his wife is a plausible candidate, media outlets showcase a tenuous relationship at best, so I discount her too. I scour any media reporting about Jarko and find the majority of it confined to tabloid journalism. An article on his lavish sixteenth birthday party in Germany, where Nielson's family resides, lists his birth date as the eighteenth of January, making it read 01/18/1998 in conventional formatting. However, since he is used to conducting business in London, the month and date would be reversed, listing it as 18/01/1998. I input this code into the safe's keypad. There is an audible click and I am able to comfortably open the door.

Inside the safe is more documentation. It is unsurprisingly of a more intimate and illegal nature and mainly takes up the form of receipts and invoices to innumerable clients. A quick read tells me the majority of these companies and enterprises are fakes, but the listed bank account information for wire transfers and payments is real. Despite the language of the documents not mentioning any explicit terms for weaponry or illegal goods, there are patterns of speech and code words that are repeated. The company listed as Gotham Consortiums is an obvious link as is the veiled speech used to describe the items traded. It lists four different types of 'specialist radio equipment and ancillaries' in the descriptions box, obvious cover terms for electronic jammers. The cost of this equipment was just shy of five million dollars, a hefty sum even for the most expensive communications equipment and devices. Other clients seem to have paid comparable amounts for other specialist equipment and devices. All business names offer clues to the clients' true identities. I can easily find three instances of deals with Cobblepot and at least two with Floyd Lawton, A.K.A. Deadshot. In each instance, they requested 'recreational sports equipment' which I have deduced to be automatic weapons or sniper systems from the amounts ordered and previous encounters with both buyers. Nielson is facilitating gang warfare in Gotham for a dear price. He must be stopped. The Consortium will not be the last to seek his services: There will be others.

As I begin to scrutinize all other data gathered from the warehouse for profiling purposes and background, I am aware of someone approaching behind me. Since the hour is too late for Alfred and all my other children are currently incapacitated, it must either be Sasha or Jason. Due to the heaviness of the footfalls I believe it to be the latter.

"Morning big guy." I hear Jason say to confirm my suspicions. From the smell of it, he has brought me some black coffee. I incline my head without taking my eyes off the screen. I hear him pull up a chair alongside me and he sits before offering me the coffee cup. It is form Starbucks: he has ventured out today it seems. I sip the cup and find it to be agreeably pure in its contents despite clearly being microwaved.

"Have you been busy today?" I ask after a few mute minutes.

"I've mostly been a nurse to Al's doctor. Sasha got to treat Timmy, but your other kids require a hell of a lot more maintenance."

"I see. How are they faring?"

"Why don't you ask them for yourself?"

"They loathe my presence when they are injured. I believe they are too embarrassed in front of me when unwell. According to Alfred, they consider injury a sign of weakness." I respond whilst finding a possible way into Nielson's business affairs as Bruce Wayne. He also operates a Research and Development department in one of his more legitimate companies in Sweden. Perhaps there is scope for a partnership…

"The Prince of Darkness and I watched a movie together tonight." Jason says to interrupt my thought process. I turn from the screen to look at him. The boy is dressed in just his pajama bottoms and is both shirtless and barefoot as he returns my gaze. He will gain some kind of cold-related illness if he persists in this practice of his. I remember it well from his teenage years.

"Wait here." I instruct him before standing and dressing over to the lockers on the level below the command center. I open Jason's old locker having solved his combination some years ago and retrieve one of his oversized hooded jackets. I return to him with both this and a pair of unused thermal socks. He regards my offering in stunned silence. It is clear he had not expected me to keep any of his possessions following his death. I did not preserve his locker's contents out of some sense of guilt: I merely chose to ignore their presence altogether. Clearing out his bedroom was hard enough without having to confront the other world he inhabited as Robin. He takes them with a small nod of appreciation. I watch him put them on with nostalgia. He would dress in this fashion after every training session he ever undertook, an interesting quirk of his. The jacket now struggles to contain his newfound mass, but it will at least keep him warm in the cave. I resume my seat. "Tell me about it."

Jason has been looking after Damian in a fashion. My youngest son is trying at the best of times and holds an especially low opinion of Jason. His willingness to engage in such activities with someone who tried to kill him is something of a pleasant surprise. I listen with great interest to his story of finding Damian training in the cave, his intervention and rather novel way of remedying a potentially heated situation by offering dessert and violent cinema. He describes how Damian and he first sat on opposite ends of the sofa in the living room, eating large bowls of ice-cream before the younger boy complained about his ankle. Jason allowed him to elevate the injured limb by placing a cushion in his lap and then persuading him to lie lengthways across the sofa so that his foot was propped up by the cushion. Apparently Damian was very receptive to the position despite Jason's open admissions of repeatedly tickling his toes for fun. The younger boy is allegedly very ticklish in that particular area. I make a note to test this claim later. Eventually, Damian retired to bed but accepted a piggy-back ride to his bedroom. I cannot help but smile.

"I get the impression he still hates my guts because I capped him, but at least he knows I'm not just waiting to kill him now." Jason concludes with a shrug. I nod in agreement. Maybe this is the start of a change in the family's overwhelming attitudes to Jason's presence. Perhaps in time Damian may be able to convince Dick as well that Jason can be trusted to be good. I consider this progress of the highest commendation.

"Do you still feel unwelcome here?" I inquire having drained my coffee cup. He shrugs and is a little evasive in his answer, something to be expected.

"Less unwelcome than before maybe. I'm trying my best here."

"I know and I am proud of you for it." He looks uncomfortable with the praise I give him. Perhaps he is still too used to being chided. Hopefully it will change given time.

"So how has your search been going?" He asks to change topics.

"It is proving fruitful." I tell him. He is holding something back and eyes me with a sly grin. He indicates the screen.

I watched your biometric readings earlier you know. Your heartbeat exceeded two hundred beats a minute for about ten seconds just after two this morning. What was that about?" I am surprised it was not higher considering the task.

"It was a minor exertion." I say only for him to scoff.

"Really? I know you Bruce: your heartbeat for a 'minor exertion' is less than ninety beats a minute. When battling the worst scum in the universe or the most powerful meta-humans it struggles to top one-twenty. What the hell were you doing?"

"Bench-pressing a steel door." As soon as I finish articulating my sentence, his eyes light up in wonder. Since I rarely mention my physical exploits during training or on the streets, all the boys seem to share a fascination with knowing my physical limitations, especially when it comes to my strength. Jason is no different.

"How heavy was it?"

"Perhaps as much as nine-hundred pounds."

"And what position did you bench it from?"

"Lying on the floor."

"Did you get a full lockout?"

"Yes."

"Did you break it?"

"Yes."

"That's awesome. That's like one of the most impressive things I've heard you do."

"There are stronger men out there, Jason."

"Not from as low down as you and not without the help of an extra fifty to sixty pounds of mass on their lard-ass frames."

"I appreciate your compliments but I do not consider the feat all that remarkable. I only did it to advance the investigation into the Consortium's weapons suppliers."

"Ok whatever, big guy. So when can I come on patrol with you?"

I am slightly taken aback by the question. I had not expected he would ever want to accompany me on patrol again, given he essentially has his own partner to team with in Sasha. Although I am not against the idea, I am wary of how badly our last patrols as a team together ended. We do not have a good working relationship. I would say it is our egos clashing too much.

"Would you not prefer to team with Sasha for patrol duties?"

"Yeah, after this case sure, but not right now. Right now, I'd like to help tie up the loose ends with the Consortium. Sasha wants a crack at solo work in the city anyway. Tim thinks she's up to it. I figured she could handle the usual dime-store chumps while we go after the golden goose. I take it you've found out who this weapons supplier is, right?"

"I have my theories, yes. However, I am currently considering a more subtle approach to the situation, one that involves a large degree of corporate business." The boy is familiar with my boardroom subterfuge having heard or seen it many times over the years and also knows it never ends with just a handshake. There is always field work. He grins at me.

"Bruce Wayne is going back into the lion's den, is he?" I smile at that analogy. Lars Nielson is more of a weasel or a snake than a lion if his slippery nature when facing justice is anything to go by. I nod.

"I suppose you could say that."

"Well, I'd like to help anyway I can, particularly if there's time to fight dozens of scumbags further down the line."

"I'm sure we can find the time for that. However," I say getting to my feet and pulling down the hem of my sweater, "It's late now. We'll discuss this further tomorrow." Jason nods before getting to his feet as well. He considers something briefly before articulating it.

"If you don't want me to team with you on this, you know, I'll understand. I won't get mad or anything if you want to go solo." I know him well enough. He would feel dejected and unwanted if I advised against the partnership because that is who he is. But the fact is I would not mind his company during this operation. He has proven in recent weeks that he can maintain control as well as anyone else and that he can employ non-lethal tactics to win the battles. It is as dramatic a change in behavior as I have ever seen from him and it speaks volumes for his commitment. I clap him on the side of the shoulder and let it linger there while I issue my reply.

"I would like it if you joined me. And not simply on the streets: your presence here in the cave would also be appreciated as well. As long as you wrap up warm that is." I finish with a smile. He smirks at me.

"Yes Dad." He meant it sarcastically of course, but it does not give that exact impression. I find neither he nor I seem embarrassed by the label despite the strong connotations it implies. It is a good sign for the future. I would adopt him if I could, but of course, both legally and technically the boy is dead. I would offer to create a new identity for him so he could re-enter mainstream society, but I know he would not take it. He is Jason Todd and always will be: he wishes to be no-one else. It is only paper in any case. I let my hand slip off his shoulder and retreat into my trouser pocket.

"Will I see you at breakfast? I ask. Jason shakes his head.

"Probably not."

"I see. Well, goodnight Jason."

"Night Bruce."


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: This is beginning to wind down now. I'm going to publish two additional chapters following this and then quit the storyline altogether. It's time I ended this. Enjoy. I'm not sure if this works, but I'll publish it anyway, hopefully it's good enough. Alfred's POV. He and Jason reach an understanding.**

**Loyalties**

**Alfred**

I rise before six-thirty, as I do most mornings. I shower, shave and dress in my hardiest blue shirt and grey slacks prior to going downstairs and into the kitchen. Although I would normally begin to prepare the first batch of scrambled egg whites and whey-protein infused porridge for the family's unique take on breakfast, first priority must be medication. I am in the process of organising and sorting the various pills and tablets into individual containers when I become aware of a presence behind me. I do not recognise the footfalls, as the person is barefoot, as belonging to Master Bruce, the only other early riser in this household. I do not turn yet, waiting until I am certain they are attempting to creep up on me before inexplicably whipping my head round to surprise them. When I see it is Jason, our resident executioner, I too am surprised.

"Heard me, huh, Al?" He says dropping his arms from shoulder-height where he no doubt he was going to grab me for a cheap thrill. The boy's footfalls are far lighter than they were last week and, as he is still averse to wearing sensible clothing, he is noticeably slimmer in the shoulders and waist. He must be dieting furiously to bring about such a change: he appears almost thirty pounds lighter than when he first arrived.

"You are not the first family member to attempt to frighten the living daylights out of me, Master Jason. Why are you up so early? I was led to understand you and Master Bruce only returned from patrol duties some four hours ago." I inquire, noting discoloration on his left side that points to severely bruised ribs and a deep laceration on his right forearm that is still weeping blood at the edges. Jason shrugs.

"I slept a little, but my side's kind of throbbing so I thought I might be able to score some premier painkillers off my favourite dealer." The boy tells me with a sheepish grin that still find endearing, despite all that has come to pass. I offer him a smile in return.

"Well then, please sit down so I can actually treat you instead of just dope you up, young man." I say gesturing for him to sit on the nearby breakfast stool. He rolls his eyes.

"Al, you don't have to bother with the whole doctor bit. You've got enough bad-tempered patients to deal with already. The meds will be fine."

"Sit. Now."

Jason wisely sits down. When I ask him to extend his arms, he winces with the effort. I press a hand against the discoloration and hear a sharp intake of breath. None of them are broken. I press again. None of them are fractured either. I bandage both his abdomen and his lacerated arm after applying ice and antiseptic respectively. He barely makes any noise during treatment. Due to his silence, I make conversation about the previous evening's activities.

"How was patrol with Master Bruce last night? " I ask handing him a couple of powerful anti-inflammatories and a single painkiller to wash down with his water. The boy swallows them in one gulp before nodding.

"Yeah, it was okay. I got a little roughed up, but it felt good to be back on his side of the fence again. I couldn't use my usual quota of bullets, but I can wait." The boy answers, hinting at bigger things. I am certain he is preparing to leave us. Still, I press forward with normal conversation.

"Did you make any further headway with Lars Nielsen or is Master Bruce still adamant about handling that in a more corporate setting?" I inquire returning to my previous task of sorting medication.

"He can handle one scumbag crime lord himself. Last night was just routine business. How long till my darling brothers are ready to go back on the job? They must be almost all healed up by now." He says, again eluding to the idea he is ready to move on.

"Indeed they are. However, since this family admonishes caution in any format, I must be the voice of reason and insist they all remain indoors for the next few days, just to make certain." I say as I drop the last pill into the final container meant for Tim.

"Well, I think Sasha can sweet talk Timmy in doing that, but you're going to have to tackle Golden Boy. Bruce can deal with the Ninja Brat and then we're all good." The boy suggests cheerily, likely a by-product of his lack of sleep and the painkiller beginning to take effect. It is nice to see him happy regardless. I incline my head.

"A brilliant stratagem, Sir, one I note you do not play any part in. Bravo."

"I am part of this family, Al. I just happen to be the part everyone pretends doesn't exist. So I'm really just playing to type." He offers getting to his feet and preparing to walk off, perhaps to pack his things. He cannot be allowed to leave on such a sour note, not in my presence.

"Really? I was under the impression you were making headway with both Master Tim and Damien as well as reconciling with Master Bruce." I reply to make him pause in place. He turns to me and laughs.

"But I'm still a murderer, Al, something we both know is always going to stigmatise me to everyone else. I hold no illusions that I can find forgiveness for my crimes here. I've iced too many chumps and scumbags to ever do that now. Just because they're warming to my presence here, doesn't mean they don't wish I hadn't come back to Gotham. I mean, we all know Bruce can set aside his feelings for the good of the mission and the others too, but you've never had to do that. And I know you wish I hadn't come back. After the body count I've racked up over the last few years, I know we can never have the kind of friendship we enjoyed before. Because you still have yours principles and I threw mine clean away." I respond to this self-depreciating and somewhat insulting rhetoric by closing the gap between us and staring him straight in the eye.

"Do not speak for me, young man. Do not put words in my mouth. Do not say you know I wished you had not returned, not to the man who washed your body and dressed it for burial, not to the person who still suffers nightmares about your senseless death and certainly not to the only human being on this earth who still loves you just as much as he ever did. It is not fair for you to accuse me of abandoning you to the wolves simply because I have been preoccupied with other tasks these past few weeks. That is a childish and petulant attitude not befitting a man of your age and cynicism. I am ordering you to cease this self-flagellation immediately or so help me I may be forced to slap you. Are we clear, Mr. Todd?" I tell him sternly and without any kind of hesitation. I have known what I have wanted to say to him for years now. Ever since we discovered his return from the grave, I have always known what I needed to say to him. Now is the perfect time to lay all the cards on the table. His expression is one of wide-eyed shock. For once, he cannot find the words to retort. He merely nods.

I put a hand on the back of his neck and rub it gently. "I already know you can never settle here, now that you've been to the world outside the city limits, but I will hope you can find the time to visit a sentimental old fool once in a while and brighten his day." I add with a smile I hope communicates how much I still care for him. He smirks in reply.

"I don't understand how you, the saintly Alfred Pennyworth who is rumoured to possibly be God himself, could say that about a monster like me." Jason says despondently, prompting me to slide my hand from his neck to his shoulder. My other hand mirrors the action on his opposite shoulder so that I am in a position to shake him if necessary. I shake him anyway to begin my other primed speech, one I have also prepped in advance. This one is of the greatest importance and, hopefully, of the greatest impact on him too.

"You are not a monster, Jason, you never were. You are what the world and circumstance has made you, nothing more and nothing less. You did not choose a path, a path was chosen for you. You walked down it because there were no alternatives, despite Master Bruce's insistence otherwise. For him perhaps there were alternatives to the actions you have taken, but not for you. Everything you have done is because your mind has been moulded to the idea of what you are doing is just and right. It has taken me a long time to understand that about you, but I want you to know I know it now. That does not absolve you of guilt for the lives you have taken, but it does show me that you can atone in your own way as you are doing now. Considering the positions we were in only a year ago, I can live with this particular variety of penance if you can." I say. His face speaks volumes for the effect of my words. It seems they were well chosen if the threat of tears in his eyes is anything to go by. I can't remember the last time I saw such raw sentiment on his face. He nods.

"I can, Al, don't worry. You won't have to bury me again."

"I'm very glad to hear that…Jay-Jay. Very glad indeed."

We embrace very naturally, despite his very presence being the most unnatural thing I have ever witnessed. The boy is not cold or grey this time as I hold him in my arms. I can feel the warmth of his body and the vitality of his skin that tells me unequivocally he is alive, and so am I. I have had dreams like this moment, instances when anything can seem possible for one brief snapshot of time. But until now, that is all those moments have been, mere dreams.

As I ruffle Jason's hair and dare to kiss his forehead, the reality of this scenario is enforced. The boy smells palpably of anti-septic and his breath is slightly acrid. I can hear his empty stomach groan and see the smudges on the kitchen window. They tell me of reality's inherent flaws, even when a moment as beautiful as this is unfolding. I am glad the world spoils the shine of this hug for me. Without it, I would fear waking to a world without the boy in it. It is a world I would tolerate but never fully enjoy. I know this from experience, one I never wish to repeat. We let go of one another. Jason smiles at me. He is no longer on the precipice of weeping.

"You should've been a politician with pretty speeches like those, Al. That or at least a spin doctor. Just so you know, I still love you as much as I ever have too. I just had more to lose by admitting it." He says to tell me everything is as it should be between us. I incline my head.

"Well, you have admitted it now. That is more than enough for me."

"How do you know I'm fixing to blow this place?"

"Because as much as I and he would enjoy your continued company in this house, you don't like tethers and you will always resent living under his thumb, his rules. That much at least has not changed since you were a teenager. Where will you go?" I ask. He grins at me in that peculiar way of his, a gesture that speaks of mischief and trouble in equal measure.

"Into the wild, Al. Somewhere bad men with good intentions can make a difference. Whether Bruce knows it or not, you can only win a gun fight if you bring one in the first place."

"And Sasha?"

"She'll want to follow me into the unknown, I know that. But she's got a future here with you guys I'll never have. She can be one of the good guys if you let her carry on. I want her to stay that way." The boy says sincerely. I am glad he loves that girl enough to part with her. It is the right thing to do and something he can be proud of.

"And when do you plan on informing Master Bruce of your intentions?"

"Once he's done with Nielsen and all things Consortium. So maybe three days at the most?"

"But you'll promise to come back home from time to time?"

"I may not like tethers, but if I don't keep in touch with the ground every now and again, I'll just drift back into wanton terrorism. Even though that's pretty fun, I do want to be a better man. So, yeah, I'll drop by and eat all your cookies, Al. Count on it. In the meantime, I can trust you to keep my escape plans a secret from everyone else?"

"Of course, lad."

"Right, I'm going to get my head down for a while now I'm all numbed up. I'll see you in the afternoon."

"Sleep well, Master Jason."


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: I'm winding it down slowly. In this instalment, Bruce makes peace with Jason's decisions for the future and settles his own conscience. Next chapter, all about final blowouts on the streets and half-assed goodbyes from the family. Enjoy.**

**Forge 11**

**Bruce**

I have concluded matters with Lars Nielsen and the Consortium. That I did not require anything but a suitable business suit and corporate law to bring down one of Gotham's most notorious arms suppliers was most satisfying, made more so by Jim Gordon's ability to make him turn on his business partners in exchange for a reduced sentence. There will be no trial, only more arrests and greater breathing space for the GCPD. All of my boys are now fit enough to resume training and will be ready for patrol duties and operations within another three to four days, according to Alfred's prognosis. I am content with recent events and how they have been resolved. My only concern now is Jason.

The boy is avoiding me and deflecting my attempts to engage him in prolonged conversation. At first, I believed he was engaging in criminal activity behind my back, but I am convinced otherwise by the lack of evidence to support such a theory. His weight loss gave rise to the notion he may have developed an eating disorder, such was the dramatic difference it caused in his appearance. That too was an incorrect avenue of thought. His weight is stable at one-hundred-and-ninety pounds and he is infinitely more mobile because of the shed bulk. Since he has not reverted to his old ways of conducting business and he is not starving himself, I can only assume he plans to leave the house sooner rather than later. I find I do not want him to go.

I have never hated him, not even when his killings gave me cause to. I failed him as a parent, a guardian and most importantly a friend during his turbulent adolescence. This failure was punctuated by his death at Joker's hand and then again when his return became synonymous with lethal vigilantism. I never blamed him after his return, even though I was guilty of doing so when he acted as Robin on more occasions than were necessary. Whatever he became was because I had failed him. I know I do myself no favours by crucifying my actions and condemning my methods of operation, but Jason was my biggest failure as a human being. However, I now realise he was also my greatest triumph.

I cannot kill another person. I know that line in the sand is one I will never cross. Due to that, sometimes my methods are hampered and certain operations are battles of wits rather than quick fixes. I have accepted that I have limitations as the Batman and am content to work around them. However, I cannot deny assassins have their place in this world too. Some work on the wrong side of progress, others claim to work on the same side as myself and my allies while a few blur the line between the two. I have discovered in recent weeks that Jason is willing to do anything to achieve his own set of goals, his own agendas. I admit I knew this before. What I did not appreciate was that the boy was not operating without restrictions. Although he no longer follows my codes of conduct, he does follow some form of doctrine that keeps him far enough from the true evils of this world so that he does not become the monsters he pursues.

Does he kill? Yes. Will he kill again? The answer is again regrettably yes. Can I stop him? Yes. Will I police him to ensure he does not stain his hands again? No. Am I disturbed by this attitude? Yes. Will I be able to live with myself knowing I allow him to murder people to protect the innocent and prevent more grief and heartache? Yes, I will. I trust the boy to do the right thing, even if it means he kills people to do it. I cannot force him to stay anymore. I cannot make him follow my rules. That he has been willing to try so hard to appease me proves he is sincere in his attitude to change. So I must let him find his own way to change and atone for past wrongdoing, even if I do not agree with his methods. It is the crucial element of parenting, mentoring and being a real friend that I missed all those years ago and the one I will not miss again with this second chance. Jason has to live his own life. I cannot live it for him.

The boy is my greatest triumph, not because he came back to me from the wilderness and not because I succeeded in taming him for the majority of his life, but because despite everything he has done and all the suffering he has caused I still believe he is a good person. I have never thought that of someone who has killed in the name of justice or lethal allies I have worked in tandem with, but I do think that of Jason. He has strayed and he has caused me more sleepless nights than even the most ardent of my foes, but I believe in him. I believe in Jason Todd. It is something I ought to have done a long time ago.

When I return from work, I spend time with my boys. They are causing Alfred all sorts of trouble, particularly Tim and Damian's bitter finger pointing at who is to blame for their recent injuries, but a screening of Casablanca and a never-ending supply of sweetened popcorn seems to settle them all down. Jason is absent, but Sasha joins us less than ten minutes into the film and stays until the credits roll. Nobody objects to her presence, not even Damian. She has settled into our dynamic well and is a refreshing change to the usual routine of this house. When all the boys are sated and part ways to enjoy individual activities, Sasha joins Tim for another training session in the cave. Damian goes to the gymnasium. Dick wanders out to the garage to work on another bike. I am invited to partake in all of these activities by their respective exponents, but have other matters to attend to. I go upstairs to Jason's room.

I find the door ajar, the lights off and the curtains drawn. The boy is asleep in the bed, a discarded towel on the floor telling me he has just showered after an intense bout of training and gone straight to his recovery phase. An empty protein shaker on his nightstand that clogs my nostrils with remnants of mint and whey support this. He is sleeping on his side and looks peaceful for the first time in a long while as I sit on the vacant side of the bed. With no attempts to integrate with the family in the past week, Jason is definitely reducing his presence in preparation to leave. Since Sasha is not doing the same, I can only assume she is not expected to join his exodus. It is good to know the boy believes she can make it work with us. It is good to know he cares. Very good. I reach over and gently stroke his hair, mindful not to wake him.

"Not finally going to rape me, are you big guy?" Jason mumbles stirring to consciousness whilst keeping his back to me, "Because I'm too old for you now. Too old for everyone now. My ass wouldn't fetch half of what it used to."

"I doubt you would debase yourself again, Jason." I respond moving my hand away.

"I didn't say stop." The boys says without moving. I cannot recall the last time my gesture was appreciated by him. I return my hand to his hair, moving my fingers through so I can comb it.

"This is unexpected." I say, finding I can think of nothing else to label it with.

"Maybe I'm just getting soft in my old age."

"Or maybe it's because you're planning to leave us soon and you want some sort of memento."

"Is the gift shop closed already?" He asks in his typical derisive manner. I smile at that, despite knowing my next question is a serious one.

"Are you leaving us?"

"You know I am. Everyone does. It doesn't take a genius to spot I'm shuffling further and further from this family's spotlight deliberately. I don't want a big send-off though or a tearful goodbye, which is good because the chances of that happening in this place are exactly zilch. I just want to go." Jason says finally turning his body to face me. "You know why, don't you?"

"I do hope it's not to do with my overbearing nature and lack of trust this time." I say flicking on the nightstand lamp so I can see his face. He bats my hand away in propping himself up on his elbow. The boy smirks.

"No, it's because you keep coming to talk to me when I'm naked and sleeping, which I'm pretty sure you don't do with your other darling children."

"My other 'darling' children are not in the habit of hibernating the majority of daylight hours in the nude. If I want a conversation with you, this scenario is practically a prerequisite." I say to finally earn an impressed grin from him, something I am led to believe only Alfred's brand of caustic wit has ever produced. He nods.

"I'm glad Timmy and Damian have made you funny. Makes you more approachable, y'know." Jason tells me sincerely whilst sitting up before folding his arms and shrugging. "Nah, I just need to go find my own battles to fight. I don't belong here with you guys, being a family and fighting for justice and the American way. I need to be out there in the wild, where I can be free to help people who need a saviour without a halo. Good people who don't need a trial and due process to solve their problems, just some guy willing to pull the trigger. You can demonise me if you want, but that's the road I'm going down and I'm not coming back." The boy is defensive, but honest in what he's saying. I know this is the best thing for him now. I put my hand on the back of his neck and squeeze the flesh.

"I'm through demonising you, Jason. I'm through sermonising with you like my method is anymore lawful than yours. But I want you to know if you go down that road, you can still come home from time to time. I…don't want to lose you again. You're too important to me." I tell him taking my hand back and nodding, "It's time you knew that I still love you, regardless of everything that's come between us." He smiles at me.

"I'm not going to get all weepy about it, but you should know I feel the same way. I'm not going to say it, but I feel the same way." I am satisfied with that. I do not need him to admit he loves me back. I can see it well enough. I return his smile.

"I'm glad. You're a good man, Jason. You are not the man I wanted you to be, but you're a good man all the same." I tell him simply. The boy, regardless of age he will always be a boy to me, adopts a bemused expression, one that straddles pride with mistrust and is echoed in his next words.

"And you're cool with me icing chumps to protect other good people?"

I sigh. "You know I don't approve of such methods, but I can appreciate not all problems can be solved by conventional means. I trust you to do what you think is right."

"That's the shortest sermon you've ever given. I'm proud of you." He tells me with palpable sarcasm. Everything can always be made into a joke with him, but he knows when to stop pushing buttons. He inclines his head. "In all seriousness though, thank you for accepting me for who I am. It doesn't matter how long it's taken, just that you can live with me being Jason Todd and not a clone of Dick or Tim is good enough for me." I want to hug him. Because I know he will not let me do so, I want it more. But I refrain and nod instead. He does not wish for a scene, he never has.

"It's good enough for me too. When are you departing?"

"Tomorrow morning. I want to be Europe by the evening." Jason says with some decisiveness. I am intrigued by his travel plans.

"Europe? Whereabouts?"

"Berlin for the moment. I like the city and know the routine of the streets. I'm going to warm myself back up for bigger challenges further afield. I'm probably going to drift into the Czech Republic for a while and sort out a few narcotic-related problems." The boy informs me with a smile that says he is not working on the fly. He has thought long and hard about what to do next. I am impressed but curious.

"Do you have funds?"

"About half-a-mil, give or take twenty grand. Don't ask where from."

"That won't support a globetrotting lifestyle for long. Would you like some additional money?"

He eyes me with suspicion. "Like what?"

"How much do you require?"

"Really? I'm going to be using it to buy bullets you know, not gadgets." He tells me frankly. I am under no illusions.

"I know. How much?"

"Twenty million."

"I take you'd like that in cash?"

"Non-marked bills, yes. Too much?"

"No. I can do that for you, so long as you do not consider it severance pay." I have not lost my sanity. I have merely provided him with same resources all my other children enjoy. Such reserves will only benefit him in the long run. This is an investment for the future stability of his own life and that of the family as a whole. He rolls his eyes.

"I don't plan on running away altogether, Bruce. I'll come back when I need to."

"And Sasha?" I ask to broach possibly the biggest subject to affect his departure from the house. He shrugs nonchalantly and I listen closely.

"She can do what you want, be who she should've been all along. She can make out there with me, but I know she just wants to belong, wants a family. With you, she'll get it. And she'll be an asset you can use to great effect. She already knows I'm fixing to cut and run. She's ready to let me go."

"Are you going to say goodbye to the others?"

"Nah. They'll see me again soon enough, once my pot-stirring gets me in trouble up to my eyeballs. But I am game for one last patrol with you before I bail for the immediate future. Shall we say a couple of hours, down in the cave and then out for the hunt?"

"I would like that. Rubber bullets only though."

"I know the drill."

"See you then."


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note: Probably one more chapter after this. Bruce and Jason reconnect on one final patrol through Gotham's streets. Upon returning to the house, Jason finds Damian camping in his room with violent movies and ice-cream. Half-assed and sometimes mean bonding ensues. Enjoy.**

**Forge 12**

**Jason**

Wayne Manor is my home. Bruce is my dad. These are the things I'd love to be able to tell myself. Just hearing them in my head makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. But they're not true. They're awful close to being true, but they aren't. Wayne Manor's nice and Bruce is mellow, but they don't fit me as a home and a parent. This isn't anything new. I've had the same viewpoint since I first came into Bruce's life and it hasn't changed. It probably never will. But labels aren't important to me. I don't need a place to call home or a man to call my dad. I need things that could fit those labels, but not so much that there's no room for manoeuvre. That I can come and go at the house and talk to the big guy if I feel like I need to is enough for me to hit the road on. I'm satisfied I've got something and someone I can depend on. Because now I don't feel alone or isolated. I don't feel resentment at Dick or Tim or even the Ninja Brat at having things and relationships I lack. I realised I only lack them because I don't need them to live. I can do just fine without a Thanksgiving dinner or someone to throw me a birthday party. I've always coped just fine. I always will. I've realised that being me isn't a bad thing. What I've done may be, but deep down, I'm a good person. If Bruce believes I am then I guess I believe it too.

This evening's patrol rolls out like a procession on a red carpet. Me and the big man go somewhere, we find someone, we squeeze said person, we find more people, we kick ass, we move on. We ease through three whole districts of the city like that. It seems so easy that after a while I start to think he's set all this up as a kind of low-key going-away party. Then we hit a roadblock. Alright, let's not sugar-coat it in highway-related metaphors: it's not a roadblock, it's a large, armed contingent of dope-peddling scumbags malleting the hell out of each other with semi-automatic weapons. We have stumbled across an inter-turf drug war between rival gangs that is threatening to spill out into the surrounding housing blocks and spark both a massacre and a riot in less than a day if we don't do something. I am so all over wading into this shit-storm. It's the best tune-up I could ask for before my European tour. So I jump straight in with my own bullets to ease the tension.

Rubber bullets may not be lethal, but they hurt a lot more because they can't kill you. A bullet to the temple usually results in blissful ignorance of what damage is being done to your head; a rubber bullet to the groin results in feeling like you've been fouled with a low-blow from a cannonball. In short, it hurts a lot more for a lot longer, but at least you get to see how big they swell the morning-after. It's always better to live horribly than die peacefully. So, I get the big guy's reasoning that I don't have to use live projectiles to get a rush of adrenaline. Still, even as I pop a couple of rounds into every target below someone's waistline, and quietly chuckle to myself as they pull faces not unlike a gurning Jim Carrey, I don't feel the same excitement or urgency as when I use real metal jackets. For me, if you're not planning to kill anyone, there's no point bringing a gun at all. At the moment, my modified Glocks feel like a gimmick rather than a part of my being.

However, after less than ten minutes of accurate fire and Bruce's range of nerve strikes and variations burying his boot heels in unsuspecting faces, the war has been reduced to a skirmish, and a non-starter at that.

"I'm out of bullets." I tell the big man as I check my magazine clips.

"That seems very uncharacteristic of you." Bruce muses, "How many did you bring?"

"Like twelve clips of fifteen. I swear I only put two rounds in each of the twenty I dropped. That means forty gone which means, I should have nine full clips left or one-hundred-and-thirty-five bullets." I say before turning to look at him. "Why'd you lift my clips like that?" I could feel him take one every time he folded back to my position to launch a new assault on a different target. I don't need to be a math whiz to know if he drew back behind the firing line nine times, he stole nine clips off my belt.

"I thought it might be nice if we did this the old-fashioned way, because I'm a sentimental old fool." Bruce explains without hesitation or humour. I'm surprised.

"Al? Al suggested you do this? I thought it didn't matter how I took them down, so long as I did the right thing." I check, astonished the old man would be able to coax the stone-hearted rich boy into making such a wet statement.

"I did say that. And I meant it. But I just felt, since we do not like intimate gestures of affection, there had to be another way to show how much I will miss your company. Alfred suggested, since I still fondly recall some of our earlier patrols and the dynamic we shared…"

"I am NOT making quips like I used to. Okay? Not happening, nor am I going to squeeze into pixie shorts again. Those days are over." I tell him straight. Even though he's under the cowl and operating in full bad-ass mode, Bruce smiles at that.

"That is not what I meant. I hated those elements of our patrols as much as you do now. I was always a fan of our team manoeuvres. We did them with greater fluidity and flair than I have enjoyed with either Dick or Tim during their tenures in the role. I thought it might be nice to 'tag-team' our remaining workload tonight, like we used to." He says to bring images of a thirteen-year-old boy giggling as a grim-faced guy in a bat costume flung him into the backs of two heavy-set thugs crashing into my mind. Shit, that was actually me at one point. I roll my eyes and sigh.

"Jeez, you really are a sensitive old woman, aren't you? Fine, if it'll make you happy, I can probably still do a few of the old shuffles and shakes with you." I say only for him to jab a finger in my face.

"No guns."

"I may have been kicked in the head more times than any of your other kids put together, but I remember there were no guns in the dim and distant past. Let's go before you get any other 'fun' ideas." I respond slapping his finger away and walking past him in the direction of our next stop: the Bowery. He's lucky I actually like the sound of that idea or I'd have flipped him the bird like the old pro I am and left town already. Turns out I'm a sentimental old hag too.

We run through about seventy variations on the theme of causing lasting pain but no long-term damage over the next three hours. I get flung into people head-first, feet-first, fist-first and, on at least two occasions, ass-first. Believe me, when you're crashing into someone's face at fifteen-miles-an-hour, any part of your body can prove to be an effective weapon, even a pair of rock-solid butt cheeks like mine. We do synchronous flips forward and back to springboard into pairs of enemies that are blocking both the front and rear escape routes, assisted dropkicks to the stomach, simultaneous arm and leg locks on different targets before making them head-butt each other and some other crazy stunts I can't believe I ever forgot.

Throughout it all, I remember how well we used to work as a team when tempers weren't at boiling point. When I was thirteen going on fourteen, partnering up with Bruce on a move that could only be effective with perfect team cohesion and pulling it off, gave me a rush of adrenaline bigger than anything I have ever felt before or since. And I admit, for nine months, I was so addicted to getting that high that I would launch into a team manoeuvre even if Bruce had other plans. I felt so connected to him when we linked hands or touched during an aerial assault, more so than I ever did with my folks or Sasha, despite her doing nothing wrong. Those moments of choreographed art amidst alleyway brawls and dirty street fights were truly the happiest of my entire adolescence under his roof. When we finish the patrol with a deft aerial somersault that requires us to clasp hands for added momentum before slamming into each other's targets, I remember how good a rush without bullets can be. I even voice my opinion, although I make sure I don't give away how much fun I had.

"Will you just marry me?" I say, only half-joking. The big man smiles before shaking his head.

"And here I thought you were humouring me. I take it you enjoyed the heavy dose of nostalgia we created tonight?"

"Maybe a little, but you definitely enjoyed it more." I say with a smile safely hidden beneath my helmet. He inclines his head, but the smile stays put.

"I can admit to that being the case. Shall we go back to the cave?"

"If you also admit I do the whole tag-team thing better than Dami, then we've got a deal, otherwise I'm heading for the strip joint downtown." He looks uncomfortable with the ultimatum and I understand. The Ninja Brat takes everything personally and even things mentioned far beyond his earshot somehow manage to grab his attention. But I want him to say it anyway, just because.

"Yes, you do. Please do not tell him I said that. It would…sour him, beyond belief." He says with careful consideration given to his way of sanitising the more appropriate phrase of 'make him bat-shit crazy and likely to rip someone's head clean off.' I'm satisfied.

"Deal. Let's ride."

When we get back, the big man resigns himself to the cave for the foreseeable future to work on some problem or other. I bid him goodnight and begin to ascend the stairs before stopping. I clock my memorial statue and its plaque claiming me a 'good soldier'. Normally it gives me shivers. This time I think its gaudy as hell.

"Hey, Bruce?" I call down. He turns his command chair towards me.

"Yes?"

"I think it's time to take that stupid thing down. I don't need an epitaph just yet." I tell him whilst gesturing to the case. He smiles before nodding his head.

"I will see to it in the morning."

"Thanks."

"Goodnight, Jason."

"Night, big man."

I get into my room ten minutes later and find a guest lounging on my bed, watching my DVD collection and eating mint choc chip ice-cream. Damian's staked an early claim to my room, a bold move since I have yet to yell my intentions to split from the rooftops. When I wander in, still clad in half my survival suit and tool belt, I'm half-tempted to drop him right now with the few rubber bullets I have left in my clip. Then he locks eyes with me. The hatred is still there, as is the resentment of old wounds and wounded pride, but the kid's eyes aren't baying for my blood quite so obviously anymore. He points to something on my nightstand. I follow his finger's direction until I see another bowl of ice cream that's so freshly scooped it hasn't even begun to melt yet. He's literally just set-up camp here…to hang out with me. Violent movies and ice-cream, the common ground between League of Assassins' royalty and gun-toting thugs. I roll my eyes at the offer, feeling the slightest of vibrations on what I assume might be my heartstrings.

I lug off my belt and stretch out on the bed beside him. I grab my bowl and then look at him again, this time with suspicion at his kindness. He narrows his eyes at me.

"It's not poisoned…this time."

"Is that supposed to mean there'll be a next time, Psycho?" I ask with a smirk, testing it and finding no trace of bitter almonds or flat-out rat poison amongst the sugary goodness. He sneers at me.

"Just give me a reason to end you, Todd. I'm waiting for it."

I respond by reaching over and ruffing his hair. "Aren't you just the sweetest little monster I've ever known? Daddy's little sociopath actually has feelings after all." He jerks his head away and I wait for retribution. He glares at me before scaling it back to a scowl. He does nothing to regain his lost dignity. I nod my head, impressed at his new level of restraint. "You're not a complete tight-ass after all, Dami. It'll take you far in this world, believe me."

"Is that your idea of a compliment?" He asks derisively. I fluff up the pillows behind my head and rest the bowl on my stomach, ignoring him and settling in to watch one of the better sequels to Friday the 13th. A moment later, the devil spawn copies me. We exchange glances and then begin to watch and eat in total silence. About forty minutes, during a particularly gory murder scene that still stands up today as stomach churning, the kid speaks.

"Thank you for mending your relationship with my father. It means a great deal to him." Damian says without looking at me. I steal a glance at him before returning to the screen.

"The old man's not all bad, I suppose. He just…"

"Forgets we exist?" The brat says to finish my sentence for me. I nod.

"Yeah, pretty much. You mean as human beings, right?"

"Not, I mean altogether."

"I heard you spent time with him just this afternoon."

"Watching some black-and-white plebeian drama with actors who died before the last ice age is not time well spent."

"But watching Jason slice screaming idiots apart with his chainsaw is?" I say as my point is visually acted out onscreen. Damian shrugs.

"I like him. He reminds me of you and your particular brand of subtlety on the battlefield. Do I need to explain my joke or have you mastered humour?" He inquires bluntly. I laugh.

"I get it, but I'll never quite be as funny as you, my darling brother." This new moniker prompts him to finally look at me again. He looks surprised.

"Do you consider me family?"

"What, no comparison to me being related to chimps rather than human beings today?" I check. He blanks my attempts to sidestep the question. I sigh. Kids, no time for real comedic processes anymore. "I'm not entirely un-fond of you, my little lunatic. Satisfied?" He considers what I've said before nodding in agreement and musing on the subject again. It's fascinating to watch a wind-up toy slowly whirr into life. Eventually he manages to say something back.

"If you truly feel that way, I must confess to having grown to tolerate you as well."

"Great." I say with only a fraction of my typical sarcasm for such a Bruce-styled attempt at praise. He frowns in indignation.

"You should feel honoured. I have never bestowed such an accolade on an enemy who shot me point-blank in the chest."

"Yeah, sure thing, Devil Spawn. Want another one put on?"

"Yes."

As we begin to watch House of Wax, I feel the kid shift his weight closer towards me. I shift away. He shifts closer again. I shift away again. When he does it a third time and I'm hanging off the side of the bed, I have to confront him. "What do you want?"

"Do you really like me?" He asks, his eyes impossibly big and confused about the situation. He's ten. Remember for God's sake he's only ten. I nod my head to appease him.

"Yes."

"More than Drake?" He asks leadingly. I snort.

"Not a chance."

"Will you please…be nice to me?" He says sliding back over to create room for me. Oh, for Christ's sake…really? He's ten, Jay. He's ten and he's feeling unloved and vulnerable and you know exactly how bad that feels, especially with Bruce. He's tried to be nice to you, tried to hang out with you and he has no idea if what he's doing is working or not because you're such a sarcastic prick about it all. Give him a fucking bone before he gnaws his own arm off for the attention. I let out the biggest sigh of the night before shuffling back onto the bed and hooking an arm around his shoulder so his head rests against my chest.

"Fine, but only because you got me ice-cream." I say. He settles into a comfortable position. A sharp chin in my stomach tells me he's just nodding in agreement.

"Thank you…Jason." The brat says, acknowledging me properly. "I will think twice about stabbing you in future." I roll my eyes before venturing to ruffle his hair again.

"If you were my kid, I would've drowned you at birth."

"The feeling is mutual."


End file.
